


The Power of Ice and Fire

by BritPrus8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Plus J Equals J and C, Bending (Avatar), Dark Jon Snow, Depression, Dragons, Dubious Consent, Elemental Magic, Emperor Jon Snow, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Incest, Jaime lannister is a targaryen, Jon falls on the wrong side of the coin, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-Typical Underage, R Plus L Equals J, Smart Jon Snow, Valyria
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-24 19:50:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 51,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20364157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritPrus8/pseuds/BritPrus8
Summary: In a world where the manipulation of the elements of the natural world is a gift of the gods common to the highborn of Westeros and their bastards how will the Greatest game play out?Warning: Pretty AU and not very focused on the ships





	1. Ice I-The Watchers on the Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Before we start I want to remind everyone to take Coronavirus seriously, particularly everyone in Europe and America . It might not be you, but it WILL be someone.
> 
> Go to the WHO for your information as well as other relevant medical authorities such as the NHS in the UK and CDC in America.
> 
> https://www.who.int/emergencies/diseases/novel-coronavirus-2019/advice-for-public
> 
> Try to keep up to date with your governments responses to the outbreak and even when you’re not asked to, wash your hands and don’t cough on people.
> 
> Stay home and stay safe to everyone in areas with outbreaks and my prayers to those afflicted, their families and people who’s jobs are/might be affected.
> 
> Thanks to all the doctors and nurses fighting this disease right now.

Benjen Stark was cold.

He did not understand quite what it meant. Benjen had never been cold before. Not even in the cruel depths of winter. It was the Wolfsblood. The same Wolfsblood that gave his brother Brandon and sister Lyanna their violence and ferocity. The same Wolfsblood that gave his family their powers. Gave them their immunity to the deep snow and ice brought by winter. To the freezing weather the people of the North knew so well. Starks never get cold. It was known. So why? Why did Benjen feel the ice biting at his skin? Seemingly seeping into his very bones. It’s not natural for a Stark to be cold.  
The last thing he remembered was the howling wind of a snowstorm. Searching for his brothers of the Watch. They had been separated, hadn’t they? He had screamed for them he remembered. Then his horse fell. No, it froze. Benjen had turned around and….

…nothing.

He remembered nothing. From that point it was blank.

Where was he?

It was so very cold

He should open his eyes and see he knew. But his hands were frozen and his entire body felt akin to a mountain. Too heavy for any man save a Lannister to lift.

Mayhap he should just sleep.

But no. He was a Direwolf of House Stark. If he was going to be on his deathbed it wouldn’t do to die in the far north so terribly far from any of his pack. Be they his Blood or his Brothers of the Watch. 

But he was so very cold.  
Benjen Stark stood. The snow had stopped falling for a moment and in the near distance Benjen could see a forest. Shelter. Gathering all of his will and energy Benjen of House Stark began to place one frozen foot in front of the other. Slowly but surely, he made his journey forward. Then he saw it. A horse of the Night’s Watch stood in the shelter of the trees. Covered in blood it seemed that the horse’s rider hadn’t made it. Rolland, he thought that was Rolland’s horse. He was a good ranger. Well mayhap not good, but he certainly wasn’t bad. Rolland was only a boy. Hailing from King’s landing he was the son of a whore who worked in a famous brothel on the Street of Silks. A muscular lad of two and ten, with hair as black as night and striking blue eyes. He was almost certainly one of the King’s. He brought a dagger north with him. A gift from his mother. Engraved with dragons. She was probably one of Aerys’. Aerys had sired quite a few bastards if Brandon was to be believed. Brandon was his brother, or was he his nephew? Thinking was terribly hard at the current moment. But if Rolland was gone Benjen knew that it was incredibly likely that the rest of his scouting group was too. Benjen tried not to think too much on it (thinking was terribly hard after all) and quickened his pace toward the horse. His hopes of returning to the wall (preferably alive) heightening.  
Mounting the horse felt like a thousand swords stabbing his body. Riding it felt even worse. As the vision of the wall dawned on the horizon Benjen felt like crying, whether from relief or the agony he was currently in he couldn’t tell. The cold feeling had been growing over the course of his journey, to the point where he was sure he wouldn’t make it. But now! Now there was hope. Benjen encouraged his horse into a canter. Seconds later he realised that that probably wasn’t the greatest idea as the agony turned into torture. He couldn’t help but to give in to the pain and the darkness.  
Benjen Stark closed his eyes less than 0.75 miles from the wall and Castle Black.

He was so very cold.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wall was never cold to Aemon Targaryen. Such was the power of the Blood of the Dragon flowing through his veins and those of his ancestors. And yet he dreamed. Dreamed of a world where his blood was cooled like those of all men. A world of death. A world of a great and terrible war for the crown that he himself had given up long ago. Of a Lord Commander born as a bastard of House Stark, whom for some reason or another did not seem to hold the Blood of the Direwolf that gave the Starks their icy powers. No, he thought, in this world no man seemed to hold the powers bestowed upon the Highborn families and their bastards long ago by the gods. Instead they fought only with the clash of metal against metal. It was truly a strange dream. To not have the powers of the gods chosen few.

The Riverlords with their power over the water both running and still. The Valelords and all the varieties of control over the Sky, be that the air or the clouds. The Stormlords with their thunder and lightning. The Dornish and their control over the desert and the sand dunes that covered their homeland. Almost in symmetry were the Lords of the Westerlands whom could bend the earth itself to their will. And of course, the Ironborn, whose blood is said to be molten metal. Always willing to pay the iron price. In contrast were the Lords of the Reach whose daughters were always the most beautiful flowers and whose sons were the deadliest thorns with their power over plants that grew most heartily in the fertile lands of the reach. And then there were the Starks. Their words were Winter is Coming and when one faced down a Stark in the flames of battle one could most certainly understand that message. Their blood was ice itself. Their powers could freeze the most lethal thorn under the white embrace of a never-ending snowstorm. That was the reason Aegon the Conqueror had taken so long to take the Kingdom of the North after all. Facing down wave after wave of Snow, Hail and Ice sent toward him and his Sister-Wives. 

But they prevailed. While it may seem biased of him, Aemon would always maintain (internally at least) that the Power of the Targaryens, the Blood of the Dragon, would always be the greatest. At least it was until the generations that cost his family everything. Jaehaerys, whose fire was taken from him by his own father after he wed dear Princess Shaera. Their two children Aerys and Rhaella. Aerys mad with the embers of power that remained to them and reliant on Wildfire for most of his executions, and poor Queen Rhaella who was so weak she could neither sustain most of the hatchlings who grew in her belly nor produce any fire herself. Her sons were not much better with Rhaegar heavily reliant on Sword and Shield. And little Viserys whose fire seemed to be consuming him whole, as Rhaegar had written to him so many years ago. Their sister he did not know. But for hers and their family’s sake he wished her sanity and power.

He had never thought when he went to the wall for the first time, at least not truly, that he would ever be left completely alone. And yet here he was. At the end of Westeros looking out onto, though no longer seeing, the bleak horizon of never-ending snow and dark forests with mountains towering in the distance. With no one. His family all but extinct save for two whom to the best of his knowledge were currently running from assassins sent by his niece’s own grandson. The current “King” Robert Baratheon, First of his name. Heralded as a hero for killing the silver prince while the Targaryen name faded into obscurity. While Aemon’s own personal name was forgotten nigh completely. He was simply the Maester on the Wall. He had lived for nearly a century. Longer than any other man known to the Citadel. And that was his only accomplishment.  
What was his purpose?

To serve. Always to serve.

At that very moment a young steward burst into his chambers, panting for breath. “MAESTER!” the boy screamed. “Please, you must come quickly. It’s the Lord Stark. He’s heavily injured and his blood is going crazy. There are spikes of ice shooting from all around him! He’s bleeding heavily, though none of us can get anywhere near him to attempt to help!”  
How joyous. And it begins again. “Take me to his side dear boy” the Old Dragon said. Breathing in deeply. “If it’s one thing we don’t want tis the Starks angry at us for failing to save their kin”. He sighed and whispered under his breath, “They are one of the only Lords sending good men to us anymore after all”.

They had to travel beyond the wall to reach Lord Benjen Stark. It seemed that his ice had killed his mount while riding back. It was a miracle he had reached as far as he had after being lost on the most recent expedition beyond the wall, meant to scout out the wildlings. It seemed they were amassing in numbers, lead by a King even, that is if Qhorin Halfhand were to be believed. Aemon felt his blood stir. He knew if one wanted to heal a Stark while they were in the condition Benjen Stark had found himself in, one had to have the power of either Ice or Fire. Luckily Aemon was a Targaryen and Targaryens were fire incarnate.  
He approached the Stark. Benjen was oozing blood and ice. The left-hand side of his body seemed to have frozen over almost entirely. While the ice covering his left arm and chest may not have seemed odd to any of those surrounding him. Aemon Targaryen had treated this particular man, this particular Stark many times before. Thus, he knew the feel of Stark Ice. Bleeding ice or freezing a wound over with their ice was common for Starks. Or at least it was for this one. Thus, he had had to deal with such frozen injuries on a near regular basis. Such were the dangers of being a ranger.

The ice felt wrong.

Stark ice was smooth, cold to the touch but not instantly freezing in such a way that one drew one’s hands back immediately for fear of frostbite. Starks may have had the Blood of the Direwolf but they were living breathing men as well. And no man can freeze completely. Humans thrive in warmth after all. Its what made the Stark family so strange in the eyes of all others, from the Smallfolk to the other Great Lords. It’s unnatural for a human to be able to survive such temperatures without furs. To be able to control Winter itself to the degree they did.

Westeros was rife with rumours about them. In the south it was said that their seat, Winterfell, was called as such because the Starks decided when Winter began and when it ended. That their words were a threat and a promise. In the North while the vast majority of Houses supported House Stark wholeheartedly, those who secretly plotted dissent whispered in the ears of their smallfolk that the Starks would see them freeze to death in a Great Winter. After all summer had been so long. That they were the descendants of nightmares. The children of White Walkers. Descendants of the Night King himself. Aemon didn’t believe these rumours. For none but a Targaryen could wield such mighty power and the White Walkers were tales meant to scare young children into obedience. Like the Furies of Essos.

This ice on the other hand was coarse and rough. It seemed to be irritating the Starks skin and was spreading everywhere on his body. Slowly but surely. He could feel it creeping forward. Encasing the Stark. And his own fingers. It was trying to freeze him. The unnatural ice was attempting to freeze him. The Blood of the Dragon. And it was working. Aemon focused all of his inner flame towards his hands. Only then did the ice stop in its tracks. He could have taken his hands away and burned the ice off. But then the Stark would fall to Winter. And that could not be allowed in any situation where saving the Stark was possible. So, the Old Maester continued to treat the unnatural patient. Out in the open, surrounded by the Brothers of the Night’s Watch. They did not have much time to get him stable and able to be transported back to Castle Black. Night would soon fall and with it the terrors it hid. Snow Bears, Direwolves and Wildlings. All would be attracted to the scent of blood and weakness that the Stark was giving off.  
So, the Old Maester worked as fast and hot as he could. With how much he was heating up the Starks body Maester Aemon was near certain that the poor man would get a severe fever. Especially with his Stark blood. If the Maester cared more about Benjen Stark perhaps he would be more concerned with this fact. And the fact that he was melting the man with ice in his veins from both the outside and the inside. But the Old Dragon had more people to worry about than the Wolf on the Wall. If he did not hurry with his initial treatment, he could very well loose the 5 men who had accompanied him to the injured Stark. 

And so, the Old Maester rushed his treatment and burnt away the darkness lurking in Benjen Stark. The Stark was in pain Aemon knew. His screams gave that fact away. But it was necessary Aemon told himself. The Old Dragon had gained great control over his powers and their use in healing through his many years at Castle Black. Due to this the initial treatment was relatively quick and they started the return journey to the wall before the sun set over the Frostfangs. The strangest part of the healing, Aemon thought, was the ice. 

I almost thought I heard it scream


	2. Ice II-Winterfell

Winterfell. The most ancient and honoured castle in all the North. With a history spanning from the Age of Heroes eight millennia ago. Such power had been in these walls. Such nobility. And yet now it harboured him. He was the weakest of all his family. It was known. 

Even Sansa who had no control over ice or snow like the rest of his siblings had great power over her mother’s element. Although as she was a lady, she never showed her power, it was so terribly unbecoming of such a great lady after all. Jon disliked her the most. Other than her Lady Mother she was the worst member of his family in his opinion. Sansa had no gratitude. She had all of this power (sometimes when she was angry, she lost her great self-control and gave into her element to the point where it even seemed to him that she was even more powerful than Robb.). And yet she did not use it. She did not practice. She never even spoke of it. 

And then there was him. Lord Stark’s bastard son. The only stain on his famous honour. The shame of House Stark. If he was simply a bastard Jon thought he would be alright with his lot in life. He would go to the wall when he was four and ten (he doubted Lord Stark would have allowed him there any earlier than that) and fight the filthy savages that were wildlings to protect the realms of men. But he wasn’t simply a bastard. He was a crippled bastard. Oh sure, he had all of his limbs and they moved well enough. But his powers. Even bastards had powers if their noble parent so deigned to allow them to keep them. Jon sometimes thought that his father had been interrupted in the middle of taking his powers from him. Jon Snow didn’t have snow after all. He had slush.

It was humiliating. Whenever he was training with Robb when they were younger, he could produce neither snow nor ice. It was all too hot and immediately after he summoned it, it started to melt. When he was completely despondent his slush occasionally came out as ice. But the rest of the time it looked like snow which was melting in the summer sun. He was so useless that when he was only seven his father took him to his solar one day after practice (being beaten up by the stupid Greyjoy heir) and none so subtly told him that perhaps he should start training with a sword. A SWORD. He was a noble born bastard raised in the same house as his trueborn siblings. He should have been freezing his enemies to the bone if they dared to attack him or his pack. Not fighting like a soldier of the smallfolk or the cursed.

Jon had refused to lay down and take his obvious failure of a life though. He trained. When he wasn’t training, he read. When he wasn’t reading, he trained. Train. Eat. Read. Train. Eat. Train. Eat. Read. Sleep. 

Studying was a great priority for Jon. After all it was blatantly obvious to him that Robb would desperately require his aid when he inevitably became Lord of Winterfell. Robb may have been nigh unbeatable with his powers. But he performed absolutely abysmally in his Lordly lessons. Jon would know. They had been taught together since they first learnt their letters (Which he had mastered first if he might add). Lady Stark and Lord Stark along with Maester Luwin all said that he simply needed to play a little before taking his lessons seriously. There was time after all. Lord Stark was relatively young. The closest friend of the King. With the loyalty of all those in the North. Let Robb be a child they said. There is time.

But Jon knew better. Jon knew that everything can change in an instant and one wrong decision taken by a noble can quickly spiral into an all-out war. It was written in history to be so. From the Kingdoms near constant state of war before Aegon’s conquest to Rhaegar Targaryen’s kidnapping and rape of his Aunt Lyanna. History never repeats itself but it always echoes.

The callous way that all the adults treated Robb’s lack of concern toward his Lordly studies was more than simply naïve in his opinion. It was sheer idiocy. Their own Lord Father became the Head of House Stark and Warden of the North aged only nine and ten. And the rumours of the current Kings addiction to whoring and drinking had reached even the north. His lack of care toward his position and responsibilities to his people had further divided a realm which was already greatly fractured.

Jon assessed the current state of the Seven Kingdoms as best he could once every six moons. Like clockwork. He had calculated who would side with whom should war come to fruition at that exact moment. Currently the situation had the North supporting the Crown, which would also have the support of the Vale, the Westerlands, the Riverlands and the Stormlands. As well as the nominal support of the Iron Islands with Greyjoy as Lord Stark’s hostage. The Dornish would almost certainly stand in opposition, for the honour of the poor Princess Elia Targaryen and her children little Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. Their murders were seen even in the North, one of King Robert’s strongest supporters as despicable. With Dorne would stand the Reach due to their lack of influence in the present court and council. It was also possible that such a war could cause a defection of Lords in the Crownlands. It was an open secret after all that the vast majority of the Crownland Lords still had loyalties directed to the Targaryen Dynasty due to history and their shared Valyrian heritage.

With his calculations. The Crown forces should have at least 113,000 without the Crownlands and Iron Islands. Opposing forces could field at least 100,000. The deficit of men should mean that war would not break out at the moment. Realistically, the fate of Westeros rested upon the Targaryens in the East. If they could make allies within the free cities and chose to invade. War would break out. And an invasion was a choice they would almost certainly make if they acquired the means. The vicious and cruel murder of Princess Elia and her children would be cause enough even if they did not have the strongest rivalling claim to the Iron throne.

Jon knew that he wasn’t supposed to know of them, Maester Luwin did not teach them much about the more recent members of Aegon the Conqueror’s dynasty. Indeed, speaking of the Mad King and the Mad Prince outside of the classroom was forbidden by Lord Stark, it must have brought up traumatic memories for him. But he was curious. And so, he asked the Maester if any of the House survived the war. Apparently, there was a Maester on the wall who was the last Targaryen living in Westeros. As well as the Mad Prince Rhaegar’ s banished siblings whom resided in Essos, Prince Viserys and Princess Daenerys. He wondered what they were like. As well as which side of the coin they fell.

“JON”. Robb was calling him. They were still as close as full-blooded brothers. However, ever since Jon had been stopped from using his powers in the presence of others (he never told Lord Stark but he had yet to truly give up on his powers and still practiced any night he could, and, as a bastard, that was most nights) and started on training with a sword with the household guards, Robb had become closer with the Greyjoy boy.

“Good morrow brother!” Robb exclaimed grabbing Jon by the neck and ruffling his hair. Joy of joys, he is now being accosted. “Have off! Have off!” Robb thankfully released him. “God’s be good Robb! What on Planetos has gotten into you this morrow?”. Robb started grinning like a Shadowcat. Jon was immediately on edge. This could not be good. Robb leaned in conspiratorially and whispered “You mustn’t tell father, but Theon’s going to make men of us tonight.” Oh Stranger. “Theon’s going to bugger us is he?” Jon stated completely deadpan. Robb started spluttering like a fish, face as red as his hair. Is seemed quite fitting actually.

“NO! By the seven Jon! How could you even think such a thing?!”. Robb went through all the levels of outrage and embarrassment there Jon thought as he raised an eyebrow. Robb seemed relieved and started laughing then. “By the old golds and the new Jon! You really ought not make such japes.” “Anyway, this eve Theon and I will be going into Winter town.” He lowered his voice “to visit some… establishments”. Jon channelled his inner Lord Stark and stated with no emotion whatsoever “You’re going whoring then?”.

“Jon! Keep your bloody voice down” he hissed “Father can not know.”. Jon sincerely apologised. “Anyway, I was hoping that you would join us? I mean we are almost six and ten! It’s about time!” Robb questioned him. Now nine times out of ten this question would have been answered with a curt no. However unfortunately for Jon his brother started on the wolf cub eyes. Gods be damned. Not the eyes. And thus, such a question was answered with a hesitant “Very well”. “YES! Theon said I wouldn’t be able to convince you but I did! Tonight, is going to be so great!” Robb practically skipped away while shouting “Bye Snow! I have practice now! Meet by the stables!”. For someone so paranoid about Father not knowing of the activities they would be partaking in this eve. He wasn’t very subtle.

God be good. What had he gotten himself into?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eddard Stark was never meant to be a Lord Paramount. The values that his Father had drilled into him were those of loyalty and honour. Necessary values for a second born son. Loyalty to his elder brother. Honour to stop him from betraying said brother. As a trueborn son of course, he was still trained in Lordly business. More than his brother Benjen, since he had been the spare to the heir. He knew all the sigils and house names of his fellow Northmen. He could easily sit through long discourse and take supplicants for hours. He knew how a keep was run and how to calculate taxes. 

But none of his lessons had prepared him for this. For the lying, the deceit and the betrayal. He was prepared by his father to be his brother’s most loyal bannerman. To perhaps take Queenscrown or Moat Cailin as his keep to rebuild. Mayhap even to marry for love. It was not that he did not love his wife. She had given him his five wonderful children and had tolerated the presence of his nephew-cum-baseborn son. For far more years than he had initially expected a Southron Lady to.

But sometimes he wondered, dreamt, of the life he could have had with Ashara. He still remembered her violet eyes sparkling akin to stars as they danced. Of hearing word of the birth of his daughter. The one child of his whom had never lived to see the sun. What had she looked like he wondered? He thought that she would have looked like a female version of Jon, like Rhaegar’s promised Visenya. Though nobody would notice unless they looked hard, Jon’s eyes were those of his sire, an indigo do dark they seemed to be the night itself. Fitting Ned thought, considered the darkness of the times in which he had been born, and the manner he had been. 

A similar darkness enveloped him now. They had just gotten word from their spy in the Dreadfort. The whispers of Lord Bolton practicing flaying, and of his baseborn… no bastard son hunting down women and young girls for sport held true. Ned could not bring himself to believe it at first. Lord Bolton had always put him on edge yes. But he had never even considered this. As a matter of fact, he had even been considering a betrothal between Lord Bolton’s heir Domeric and his eldest daughter Sansa, or even Arya to end the feud between their houses for good with a marriage pact. His table started to freeze over as rage leaked out of his pores. He started. The heir hadn’t done anything wrong. To the best of their knowledge he was innocent of any wrongdoing, having been fostered in the Vale since boyhood. Perhaps a betrothal could still be made. It would bring House Bolton back into the fold after the current Lord Bolton’s inevitable execution.

He rose from his seat and left the room. Heading towards the great hall. It was time to break his fast and to discuss with his family their prospects for the future. After all, he knew better than anyone what would come to pass if one didn’t allow a she wolf to choose her own destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags will probably continuously change as the story develops. This is because I honestly have no idea where it's going. Sorry XD


	3. Ice III-The Frozen River

Lady Catelyn Stark, never had and likely never would feel quite at home in the frozen North. She had not always been intended as a Northern bride, oh yes her father had always planned for her to marry the heir of a great house, at least for the first few years of her life and then again after it was sure that her little brother Edmure would live to see adulthood. But like most of her generation Lord Hoster Tully’s true goal was to see her as the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Married to the Silver Prince. Mother of Dragons. Not Mother of Direwolves.

If there was one thing she was thankful for, it was not being the Queen. Be that a Targaryen or a Baratheon Queen. To see even one of her children give into madness would destroy her she knew, to have to wait with bated breath to see which side of the coin each of her children fell on would have surely killed her. And that, she knew, was the fate of every Targaryen Queen. 

To be a Baratheon Queen did not seem much better, if the whispers were to be believed. That the King was a whoremonger was well known. And every day she thanked the Seven for her Ned’s loyalty to her, with the exception of that weak, cunning, wyvern of a bastard son, he was hers. But the whoremongering of King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name was not the end of the kingdoms’ woes regarding the Royal Family. It was said that the King and Queen despised one another. That the King hated that none of his trueborn children looked akin to him (something that Catelyn had feared her Ned would do from the beginning of their marriage, even more so after he arrived with the bastard who looked so much like himself, until the birth of her little she wolf Arya.) and despised the one which had the looks of his Grandmother Princess Rhaelle, the Targaryen looks. Little Princess Myrcella was known to look like the Valyrian Queens of old. Where her brothers had the golden hair of the Lannister’s she had silver hair so pale it seemed like snow. Where her brothers and mother all had variations of the Lannister Green in their eyes, she had the stunning violet eyes of her Great-Grandmothers family.

It was an open secret that the King wanted her gone. Ladies did not use their powers unless forced to in the Southron Kingdoms. It was unbecoming. But many wondered. The Princes both had inherited their mother’s family powers. Prince Joffrey was said to be a powerful earthbender, with no sign of the Thunder or Lightning of the Baratheons of Storm’s End. The King hated this fact so much that he had engaged his heir his cousin the Grayscale ridden Lady Shireen Baratheon to strengthen the power of Storm in the royal bloodline. Anyway, of course like all ladies none had ever seen The Princess Myrcella use her powers. But people still wondered. What did she carry as her inheritance from her ancestors, was she like her brothers with power over the earth, or was she a true Baratheon doe with power over lighting? Or did she have more in common with the Targaryens than simply her appearance?

Such issues and gossip were no concern of hers though. Those were the problems and frivolities of the South. Being married into House Stark was completely different to anything she had been prepared for in her lessons with Septa Bellena. Here there were no Ladies in waiting. No sewing circles except for with her daughters, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole. Here she was expected to run her household, not the Housekeeper. When her husband was travelling, be it to war or otherwise, she herself was expected to be running the numbers for provisions and taxes not the Maester. And in the place of her eldest son Robb, she was expected to act as the Head of House Stark when her husband was not present. 

She was extremely lucky, she thought, that for 7 years she had been the heir presumptive to her House and had been taught how to govern as Lady Regnant of the Riverlands. If she had not had such training, she doubted that she would even have been tolerated up here in the cold and sensible North. Even after her betrothal to Brandon Stark her father hadn’t truly prepared her, instead letting her believe that her future responsibilities would remain the same as if she had married a Southron Lord. The start to her marriage was tumultuous of course. It was in the middle of a war, and to her dead betrothed’s brother. She hadn’t imagined that her first child or any of her children for that matter would be born at Riverrun since Edmure’s birth. And yet her precious Robb was. A son from their first night together. It showed that the Seven smiled upon their marriage.

When Ned returned to Riverrun, she had been so incredibly excited to show Ned his son and Heir. She could still remember walking into the courtyard holding her first babe. Seeing the bastard in his arms. Seeing his sorrowful face. Knowing that she would never be his first love. That her son would always a have a rival for his title. Knowing that this bastard wasn’t going anywhere.

Catelyn breathed the frosty morning air in deeply as she stood on the raised walkway overlooking the courtyard. Her dear son Robb was speaking with her husband’s bastard again. She did not and would never like how close the two boys were. Did Robb not understand why she did not want them speaking?! Or at the very least not with such compassion for one another. Her Sansa understood. Sansa did not fit in with her other wolf cubs, she was a Southron lady through and though. A fish not a wolf. And Sansa knew it. Although she could not change her character sweet Sansa had often spoken to Catelyn regarding her hair. There were dyes from Essos which could change the colour of hair, Sansa had learnt of them when the Manderlys visited Winterfell a few moons prior. Ever since speaking with Lady Wylla Manderly Sansa had not stopped asking to dye her beautiful red hair the same brown as her sister and Father.

Sansa may have carried the name Stark but her appearance, character and powers were all Tully. Catelyn had thought that she had accepted that, it seemed not to be the case. Mayhap her unsurety was simply a sign that she was about to flower. She was turning three and ten after all. It would make sense. By the gods. Her first two babies were nearly a man and woman grown. She and Ned should probably start looking for matches soon. They were both certainly of an age to at least be betrothed if not married. 

A Northern match for Robb, that was for certain. Their bannermen had never been happy with a Southron Lady Stark. They needed to reassure the Northmen that the family were still Stark Direwolves. Ready to bring winter’s frozen maw at the slightest hint of dissent in the ranks. For that to succeed, as much as it pained her, her sweet Sansa needed to be far away. Catelyn had known ever since her elder daughter was a young girl that only a Southron match would do for her. Before Prince Joffrey’s betrothal to his cousin she had thought of a royal match for her daughter briefly, but she would never have her beloved daughter marry a Baratheon Prince with such a manwhore of a father and a girl who was practically a Targaryen for a sister. But she was the eldest daughter of a Great House, a house heavily favoured by the King himself. Only a match to another great house would do. 

Whom would the available suitors be then? Houses Baratheon, Greyjoy, Martell, Tully and Lannister were not options. The only unmarried or betrothed males of House Baratheon were the eight-year-old Prince Tommen, whom Sansa was much too old for and Lord Renly Baratheon whom did not appear to have much interest in women and was a third born son. Her daughter would, under no circumstances marry Theon Greyjoy. House Martell would not marry a daughter of House Stark anytime soon, even without the inevitable political backlash to such a match the Dornish were too philandering and amorous to marry a demure Northern woman. She could never bring herself to marry her daughter to her brother, even if the last Sansa Stark had married her Uncle. And the Lannister succession was too tumultuous to involve oneself in. 

That left House Tyrell and House Arryn. Perhaps marrying the young Robert Arryn would be beneficial to their house but unfortunately her sister did not instil much faith in those of Tully blood in the people of the Vale, with all of her lost babes. So that left House Tyrell. The heir was as of yet unmarried she recalled. However, he was also a cripple and aged five and twenty. The only other option was Loras Tyrell, a man whom was known to be incredibly close to Lord Renly Baratheon. No, he would not do. The only reasonable option for her sweet Sansa was Lord Willas. That was unless they wanted to side with the Targaryens and betrothed her to Viserys the Beggar King. The Targaryen would undoubtably marry his sister soon though. Or if they married her to a lower house. A house which would never be good enough for Sansa.

Catelyn was broken from her thoughts by her daughter, who, accompanied by Jeyne Poole, appeared to be walking to the Great Hall to break their fast.

“Lady Mother. Good Morrow. I hope that you slept soundly.” Sansa said, her sweet voice tinkling like a bell. She and Jeyne curtseyed to her in unison. “But of course, Sansa. I hope that you can say the same? Good Morrow Jeyne” Catelyn replied. “Good Morrow m’lady”. Sansa spoke “I am well thank you my Lady Mother. We were simply walking to break our fast in the great hall, I have asked Jeyne to accompany me as it is her nameday. I hope you have no opposition? Either way we would be honoured if you wished to accompany us.”. “But of course, it would give me great happiness to accompany you my dear. Happy nameday Jeyne” Catelyn replied. “Thank you m’lady”. 

“Shall we off then?” Catelyn asked. The girls curtsied once more and they returned to their journey towards the great hall with Catelyn leading the way. She would have to remember to talk to Ned about possible Northern Ladies for Robb and Lord Willas Tyrell for Sansa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lord Domeric Bolton was not an idiot. He knew that there was a reason that his father had warned him to stay away from his half-brother. He simply hadn’t known it until now. He had been squiring for Lord Redfort for three years and had spent four years as a page there beforehand. Initially it was intended that he should serve as a page for his Aunt Lady Dustin. However, she had sadly died when he was nine, a year before he would have left the Dreadfort for Barrowtown. 

He was due to stay with Lord Redfort at the minimum for another two years. At least that was the plan before Lord Stark had called him back to the North. Whilst travelling north he had met with one of his Lord Father’s spies in a brothel. He interrogated him thoroughly as to the possible reasoning for Lord Stark's actions. At first the lady tried to convince him that his Lord Father and Lord Stark had been arranging a betrothal between him and the eldest Stark daughter Lady Sansa. Unfortunately for the whore, Domeric was a Bolton. And Bolton’s knew truth from lie. He had to turn 5 of her fingers to ice before she would give up the information he was looking for. His father was still practicing Bolton style flaying, freezing lines of skin before hacking it off. Worse still his half-brother was hunting women down like deer. 

Now he had a choice. To flee Westeros a wanted man or to trust that Lord Stark would not have him executed. Now except for his ah… interrogation of the whore, Domeric Bolton was innocent of any wrongdoing. And Lord Stark was known far and wide for his honour. Thus, it would be safe to assume that he would not execute Domeric without evidence of wrongdoing or knowledge of his Father and brother’s illegal acts. In addition to that, Domeric had spent nearly half of his life with Valelords and had been practically brainwashed into the values of absolute honour and unconditional loyalty. So mayhap fortunately, mayhap unfortunately there was no real choice for him. He had to go and see Lord Stark. He had to follow his summons.

But the whore had to die.  
His Father could not catch wind of Lord Starks plans nor Domeric’ s own return to the North. Domeric smiled at her “Thank you most kindly Lady Rose”, she smiled back with an odd combination of shyness and absolute terror, “You are most beautiful. Be thankful that l shall preserve your beauty”. The look of abject horror on her face as he froze her blood and skin solid was quite entertaining. “No-o-o n-n-n-o plea-s-s-se n-o-o n- “. They had met in this cellar for this very possibility, nobody would ever find this beautiful statue. He froze the door behind him. And continued on his way to Winterfell.


	4. Fire I- The happiest day of their lives

Daenerys Targaryen was fairly sure that her darling brother detested her. Viserys was her brother, her betrothed, her entire world. He was the one thing that had been steady throughout a childhood filled with terror and unsurety. And so, she loved him more than anything. Even when she woke the dragon, usually by accidentally displaying her powers, she could never be angry at him. 

She and Viserys were the last of their family. The last of the greatest lineage that Planetos had ever known. But Viserys seemed not to have any of the powers known to the blood of the Dragon at all. He could barely produce a spark. Viserys said that he was doing this on purpose. In order to avoid the notice of the Usurper’s spies. Mayhap he was telling the truth. But Dany had been trying and failing to control her fire since she was five. Her flames came to her even when she did not summon them. It was why Viserys was always so angry with her, she was a woman. She was not supposed to be more powerful than her brother. She could not control them on the rare occasions when she lost her temper. Or when she dreamt. When she dreamt of dragons and wolves. Of princes with golden and brown hair. Emerald and Amethyst eyes. Of a kingdom divided. Of seemingly endless war and death.

“Princess”

Dany’s train of thought was interrupted by one of the maidservants Magister Illyrio had gifted her.

“It is time for you to get ready Princess, my congratulations on this blessed day. We will make you shine like the moon.”

That was right. Today was the day she was to be wed. She had flowered two moons prior and seemingly all of Pentos had been preparing for her and Viserys’ marriage ever since.

They tossed her into a tub (much too cold for her liking) and started to scrub. Hard. She was rubbed raw; her body was massaged with sweet smelling oils before they brought forward the dress she would wear to the happiest day of her life.

It was gorgeous. Snow white silk with golden embroidery and with it her maidens cloak made of black velvet with rubies embroidered onto it in the shape of the sigil of their House. It was a stunning combination of Pentoshi and Westerosi styles. A dress fit for a Queen. It almost felt wrong to sully it with her body. Dany felt too weak to wear it. 

She broke her fast quickly before putting it on. It was time. 

Magister Illyrio had graciously offered to give her away. She met him at the entrance to the Sept. “My Princess” he greeted her with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Viserys had insisted that their wedding would be held this soon Dany recalled, perhaps the Magister had had some other plans for her. Daenerys could have kicked herself for such thoughts. It was not a woman’s place to question her male betters. Hadn’t Viserys taught her that?! Dany whispered that maybe Viserys was wrong. They were Blood of the Dragon too weren’t they? Daenerys shut the other voice in her head out as she greeted the Magister and walked into the Sept. Daenerys felt numb as her face was stuck into a brilliantly gleaming forced smile and her hands placed in her brothers. This was the happiest day of her life. 

“Sweet Sister. You look positively delicious” Viserys smiled as he said those words to her. Daenerys was overjoyed. Her brother was happy with her!

“Thank you, brother.”

The Septon spoke “Who come’s here to be wed?”

She answered “Daenerys of House Targaryen, a woman trueborn and noble comes here in the sight of the Seven to be wed”

“Who gives her?” The Septon inquired.

“Magister Illyrio Mopatis, her host and loyal servant.”

“Who takes her?” The Septon asked.

“Viserys of House Targaryen, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm.”

The Magister left her then.

The Septon then told Viserys “"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection.”

As her dear brother removed her maiden cloak and replaced it with a similar one somehow more decadent than the first, he grinned, she smiled back.

The Septon spoke again. Binding their wrists together with a blood red ribbon “In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one, for eternity”, he looked up for a moment and then to their faces once more “Look upon one another and say the words.”

She and Viserys’ eyes met. Viserys’ eyes were burning. They spoke in unison.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am his/hers and she/he is mine from this day until the end of my days”

They were one. He was hers. Viserys kissed her. His lips were too cold.  
As she left the Sept a married woman her face was that of a happy newlywed.

Her heart was numb and her mind was screaming.

It was the happiest day of her life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ser Jaime Lannister hated the Red Keep with a vivid passion. The horrifying thigs that he had seen here had scarred him for life. Whenever he was stationed in the throne room his heart started pounding as he heard the screams of all those whom he witnessed Aerys burn alive. When he was guarding the King and his whores all he could think about was Queen Rhaella, her begging her brother-husband to stop.

His only solace was his dear sister Cersei and their younger children Myrcella and Tommen. Joff seemed to be Aerys come again. Most parents pretend that they don’t have favourites, but the entire Red Keep knew that Myrcella was his favourite of the royal children. After all, he was always the one guarding her. Cersei had never liked Myrcella from the day she was born. After all, the sooner she had two sons the sooner that the Usurper would stop fucking her. 

Of course, all of the children were his. Even if they weren’t (he still remembered walking in on her and Lancel after returning from a trip to Dragonstone with Myrcella to meet her cousin and future sister-in-law Shireen) sweet Myrcella most certainly was. Of all of his and Cersei’s children, Myrcella was the only one that he was allowed to be close to, with neither of her legal parents caring enough about her to give a damn.

Cersei started to hate Myrcella even more after her eyes changed from baby blue to violet and her hair grew long and silver. She took it as proof that she was Robert’s spawn. Jaime knew better though. It was quite funny actually, that the one child that looked so much like the children that Cersei had dreamed of having when she was little, silver haired princes and princesses for Rhaegar, was the one which she hated with a passion.

Jaime wouldn’t have minded if she had married Rhaegar. He was wonderful. His voice, his skill with the sword, the way that he looked when he was immersed in a book biting his tongue in concentration. Rhaegar was everything a prince, no a King could hope to be and more. If he could have done, Jaime would have given him the world. He still hated himself for not being able to save Rhaegar’s wife and children. He was one of the only Kingsguard present in the Red Keep at the time of the sack. Rhaegar hadn’t let him come with him into battle. Jaime still remembered his hands grasping at his face, Rhaegar’s soft lips pressed against his own as they said goodbye. He had ordered him to protect his children. Jaime had failed the only person he’d ever loved as much as Cersei.

He would never be able get over his guilt at neither being by his chosen King’s side nor his failure to protect Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys he thought. Nearly every night he dreamt of their mangled little bodies being presented to Robert, of the sinking of his heart when he asked his father their whereabouts straight after the siege. If he didn’t dream of them, he dreamt of Rhaegar. A silver haired prince with a crushed chest and blood dripping off of him. He always asked why he failed him when Jaime had said he loved him so. Why Jaime had lied when Rhaegar had trusted him. Jaime said that he had never lied. Not truly. He could never have known what Twin would do. He couldn’t have. Rhaegar said that he knew that, Jaime was so incredibly dim-witted. Rhaegar was talking of the other lie, Jaime knew that. But he could never tell him, not even in his dream. Rhaegar would hate him he feared. Or at least not love him as he had before.

Jaime had long suspected that he wasn’t his father’s son. While he had never had the same ease as his father and brother when it came to reading and maths, he had always been raised as House Lannister’s Golden Lion and trained as such. Constantly he was earthbending. He bent to the point of at which he collapsed. It made him into the greatest warrior in all the seven kingdoms save for mayhap Ser Arthur Dayne. But what nobody knew. What nobody could ever know. Was that he wasn’t just an earthbender.

It began when he was six. He had displayed earthbending powers a few moons prior and was considered a prodigy by most. Father had wanted him to go straight into training. 5 hours a day seven days a week. Mother disagreed. Mother was the only person who could change Twin Lannister’ mind. So, he only did enough training to control his powers not to further them. But Jaime had been scared. Cersei had always been better than him at letters, numbers and talking. She had always said that she was their parents favourite child and that sooner or later he would be put aside in favour of her. Jaime knew that because he was a boy and she a girl that would never happen. But then mother was expected another babe, what if that babe was a boy who was cleverer than Cersei? He had known in his child’s heart and mind that he needed to gain his fathers respect if he was ever going to live up to his family name.

So, he started going out into the woods near the Rock to train each night for two or three hours. It was going quite well if he did say so himself. At least until his form was off by a smidge and the wrong element came out. From that moment on Jaime knew. Deep down that he wasn’t a true lion. Lions can’t breathe fire or come out of the flames of their hearth unburnt after all.

He had hidden his bastardy and his secondary element for so many years after that. Using it only to occasionally light fires. It had been his plan to bring his fiery little problem to his deathbed. And then Myrcella was born. The first few years of her life were a mix of bliss and terror. Cersei didn’t’ care for their daughter, nor did Robert, and so he was made into her unofficial guardian. He went everywhere with her, something which annoyed Cersei to no extent, her first word was “Unca Jaile”. Which was close enough for him. What nobody knew was that he was on the lookout for her powers. So that if it was necessary, he could cancel them out with his own.

It was necessary. Soon after her seventh name day she had caught a cold. Nothing too severe thankfully. Losing her at that point would have damaged Jaime irreparably. But Jaime still sat vigil by her side. Which was a very good decision, he noted after she started to sneeze fire. She was understandably terrified, with Robert as a “Father” she had long heard of the terror wrought by the demonic Targaryens and their destructive fire. She cried and wailed, even setting her bedsheets on fire. That was when Jaime had realised that he couldn’t be craven in this situation. Myrcella needed love, comforting and guidance. She needed him. So, he did the one thing he would have never dreamt of doing only eight years prior to that moment. He lit a fire in his hand and told his daughter everything.

He had half expected her to order him arrested for treason or at least for her to stop talking to him entirely. Instead, she just cried some more and hugged him. It had been terribly confusing. He had asked why she wasn’t angry at him. She had said that for so long the only adult who had truly cared for her had been him. That he was already her father. And besides, they were Targaryens so what did his relationship with Mother matter. They had held each other for hours after that. And for the first time in a long time Jaime had felt free.

He had been training her to control her powers ever since then. As a Lady she thankfully would never be expected to display them. So that was one less thing to worry about. But Jaime knew that people were talking. And he still feared. Greatly. For his one true child’ life.

But all things considered. That day. The day he truly became a Father.

It was the happiest day of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what do you guys think so far? By now you can probably see that the ships run secondary to the plot so please don’t complain about that. Also yes in this fic Jaime is bi and Myrcella looks different. And they’re already super close because Myrcella’s death scene made me cry. It turned out that lots of characters and plot is really ooc. That’s just how it is. Somethings are ooc some aren’t.  
But anyway I really hope that you like it :)  
Please comment if you want I’ll definitely respond.  
Anyway. Night night  
Or good morning  
Or good afternoon  
Or good evening  
Bye


	5. Storm I and Plant I-To be Queen

Lady Shireen Baratheon had never expected much for herself. Yes, she was the currently the Heiress presumptive to Dragonstone. But she had always known that even if she did not receive a babe brother to replace her it was very likely that the King would give Dragonstone to his second born son. She had had little hopes of obtaining a good match. What with her face ruined by greyscale and her love of books, few Lordlings would seek her hand in marriage when other, more beautiful prospects were available, such as her cousin Myrcella, Princess Arianne of Dorne, Lady Margaery Tyrell and Lady Sansa Stark. All known to be the most beautiful women of their respective kingdoms. 

Indeed, Shireen had resigned herself to being an old maid reliant on the generosity of her Uncles and cousins. Or mayhap her brother. Mother was again with child. Mother was convinced that this one would be a strong and intelligent son worthy of the Baratheon line. Shireen thought that it would die in the womb or soon after birth. Like all of the others had before it.

At least now she had a future to look forward to. If this babe was a boy. If it survived. She was surely fortunate. For in the past three moons Lady Shireen Baratheon had gone from a crippled highborn girl to the future Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

Shireen was petrified. Cousin Myrcella and herself had always been close and she had usually confided her woes in Shireen. The fact that her Mother hated her. The King despising her. 

Her elder brother Joffrey’s constant bullying of her baby brother Tommen.

Shireen had always consoled her. Comforted her when she and Ser Jaime visited. Tommen, as the spare to the Heir was never allowed to leave King’s Landing, whereas Myrcella was sent to Dragonstone for at least four moons every year. Each time Myrcella spent the first fortnight plagued with night terrors of how her elder brother must be treating her younger one. For Myrcella was a Dragon and she protected her baby brother as much as she possibly could. Her cousins Targaryen heritage was obvious to everyone, more so to Shireen as she had once accidently walked in on Myrcella lighting a fire in the hearth with her own breath. Shireen had never told a soul. Even Myrcella didn’t know what she had seen that night.

Shireen had only met her betrothed once. And she couldn’t possibly remember that day, for it was when her Father had presented her to court on her second name day. Joffrey had been but five years old. She was told by Father when she had asked of their first meeting, that he had pulled on her hair so hard that it made her scream.

If the Crown Prince kept on his path descending into cruelty and madness. Shireen had no doubt that they would be Aerys and Rhaella come again. She only prayed that her future children, if she could even have any, would not succumb to the same fate as that which befell the Targaryens. 

“SHIREEN!” Her Lady Mother’s shrill voice shrieked for her presence. Shireen quickly walked to her Mother’s chambers, where she remained on constant bedrest. As she had been for the past six moons, ever since the Maester had confirmed mother’s most recent pregnancy. At seven moons along, this babe seemed sure to be born. It was even kicking. Mother’s other babes that had survived to this point had all had weak heartbeats and rarely moved. At least that was what Father and the Maester had said, Mother did not allow Shireen to touch her, not with her condition.

That did not stop Mother from constantly calling for her. Of course, Father provided her with as many handmaids as she so desired. But Shireen was her favourite one. She entered the Lady of Dragonstone’s Chambers and curtsied.

“Mother, what would you have me do?”

“Empty my bedpan and fetch me some Honeyed Duck and oranges! Now!” Mother shrieked. 

Shireen had the strong suspicion that she did not enjoy bedrest in the least. Shireen hoped that she would never be put on bedrest for moons on end. Although, she would be waited on hand and foot and would be able to read endless amounts of books with nothing else to do. So mayhap such a fate wasn’t so terrible. Being with child would also like as not keep her safe from her bullying future husband.

“What are you doing just standing there girl! I said that I wanted it done now!!”

Shireen held in a sigh. “Yes, Mother, my most sincere apologies. I will do as you ask right away.”

Mother hmphed.

Disgusting. The stench of a bedpan that had not been emptied in hours. At least she at more sympathy for the servants than oter highborn ladies. It was the fourth time that she had served Mother during one of her pregnancies. It never got any better. At least she need only do this for another moon or less.

“Now shoo girl! You’re disrupting my day!”

Shireen nearly flinched. She bowed her head to Mother, not trusting herself to curtsy while holding the bedpan. As she left the room to go to the garderobe and empty the bedpan she almost wished that she was already married to the Crown Prince no matter his evil tendencies. She almost wished to be Queen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If there was one thing that Margaery Tyrell had always wanted it was to be the Queen. She deserved to be the most powerful woman in Westeros. She was born for it. Quite literally. For Margaery was one of a year’s worth of girls, as well as those unfortunate enough to be born boys (and wasn’t that an odd thought) which had been conceived for the sole purpose of marrying Prince Aegon. Other children conceived for this very purpose included her cousin Desmera and her brother Loras. It was really no wonder that he had turned out to have the ah… proclivities that he did. Given the reasons for his birth.

But then the Targaryens had lost and she was suddenly not a future Queen, for why would the new King choose a Tyrell bride for his possibly much younger heir when they could have a Stark or an Arryn. Instead she was simply another daughter to marry off. There had for a while been talks between Grandmother and her parents of trying to marry her off to the Stark heir. Thereby getting more favour with the Royal family and seeing her niece or perhaps daughter married to the man who sat on the Iron Throne. 

She hated it. Why should she, the most beautiful flower in all the Reach leave to the frigid North to marry? To freeze in a desolate land whilst her family continued their generations of planning. Honestly. She’d rather marry Oberyn Martell. A man who was said to have the same tendencies as her brother, as well as having eight recognised bastard daughters. A man old enough to be her father. At least then she’d be a Princess. Her thorns rose from her skin as she prickled with anger. She was supposed to be Queen.

The Crown Prince was only three years her junior, she had thought as a foolish girl. She could marry him and they would have beautiful golden-haired babies. They would live in the Red Keep and she would give him as many children as Alysanne had given Jaehaerys. She would be beloved by all and use her powers to make the filthy city smell as beautiful as Highgarden. It would be perfect. But then that stupid, arrogant, whoremonger of a king had engaged his niece to her Prince Joffrey. An ugly, wretched girl by all accounts whose mother could not produce more than a singular daughter.

Why. Why would the gods give such a girl such power when she, the most beautiful and warm-hearted woman of her generation, was set to marry a freezing Stark? It wasn’t fair.

Maybe. Maybe she could run away. Leave Westeros. Travel to Essos and marry Prince Rhaegar’s brother. Even if he had already married his sister by then they could be Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives come again. Then, when she had secured her place as his favoured wife and given him a son and heir (something she knew that she could do, she was beautiful and charming after all, and her mother had given her father three healthy boys in a row) they would bring armies to Westeros and bring it back to Targaryen rule in Fire and Blood.

“Lady Margaery.” She was broken from her thoughts by one of her ladies in waiting. 

Oh, it was Meredyth. Meredyth Crane was a favoured Lady of hers. They had been together since childhood and Meredyth always treated her as befits a Lady of a Great House. One could always tell that she knew how lucky she was to be in Margaery’s presence, and, mayhap most importantly, she wasn’t trying to seduce her brother Willas, as so very many of her Ladies had tried to do. At first, she had always immediately dismissed said ladies. But eventually, after she had gone through six minor Houses of the Reach and one major, dismissing their chosen daughters from her retinue, her dear Lady Mother had stepped in and banned her of the right to immediately dismiss any of her “dearest friends” if they started to flirt with and seduce her elder brother. Mother was horrible.

“Your Lord Father, Lady Mother and Lady Grandmother request your presence in his Lordship’ solar”, Sweet Meredyth said demurely.

Margaery mustered up her kindest and most tranquil voice to reply, “Thank you dear friend. I shall leave for them immediately; would you be a dear and order the Master of Horse to have my filly prepared? I feel that I may very well wish to go hawking soon.”

Her filly was beautiful. A sand steed sent as a name day gift by House Martell when she had turned four and ten. Margaery would often ride for hours when she felt the need to clear her mind.

“Of course, Lady Margaery. I do so hope that your meeting with your parents goes well.”

“Thank you, friend.” Margaery picked her sweetest smile and left to her Father’s solar. In her heart of hearts, she knew. This was the decision. She was going to be told whom her future husband would be. In the next few moments she would receive confirmation that she would never be Queen. In the next few moments she would have to kill her dreams. The ladylike pace at which she walked felt like a mourning procession.

All too soon the door to her Father’s solar loomed over her like a northern giant. She hesitated for only a second before ordering the guard to open it. As she stepped into the room, she felt exactly like the powerless girl she truly was. She just prayed it wouldn’t be the Arryn boy or the Tully.

Oh. They were all smiling, even Grandmother. This would either be incredibly good news, or, more likely, incredibly bad. For her.

“Oh, my dear daughter! You will be our House’s saviour!” Mother exclaimed happily as she grabbed onto Margaery tightly. Gods be good.

“My darling wife is correct my sweet rose! I am proud to announce that our negotiations with the King’s favourite House have been fruitful!” Father said proudly.

Grandmother interjected “Indeed. Just mentioning the number of crops that we’d give to them as part of your dowry was enough to make those frozen Starks take you.”

She was marrying Robb Stark then. Margaery tried to think positively. This couldn’t be all bad. Sure, she would spend the rest of her life enclosed in so many layers of furs that she’d look as fat as her Father in the effort not to freeze. Yes, she would likely ever see Highgarden again. But it wasn’t so bad was it? The Stark’s were known for their honour and loyalty. She might even be loved, if only for the food she brought with her. Mayhap she would even have a crown of winter roses.

“Thank you for this wonderful match which you have procured for me, my dear Lord Father. If I may be excused. I must go to read up about my betrothed’s family.” 

“Of course, my sweet little rose!” Her Father beamed.

Margaery curtsied and left the room at the same ladylike pace at which she entered it. Once out of sight of the guards she began to run, tears gathering in her eyes, petals flowing behind her, creating a golden pathway.

She would never be a Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> House Tyrell fell heavily out of favour post Robert's rebellion in this fic, barely managed to retain their title as Lord Paramount of the Reach. Do comment! I'll reply to all of them :)


	6. Ice IV-What it means to suffer

Robb Stark was his father’s heir. It was something made clear to him since he was very young. And he had always known that he had to be perfect. He had to be intelligent, charismatic and most importantly powerful. It was well known that Father had only succeeded in his early days as Lord Stark due to the respect his bannermen held for his actions during Robert’s Rebellion.

Robb had always excelled at using his powers. Having developed them when he was only six, he was now without a doubt the most powerful of his Father’s sons. Jon had developed his “powers” before him, but that didn’t really count, what with how useless they were. He had had to train every day to develop them to this point. To the point where he could summon an intense snowstorm focused on a particular area. That was what Robb was doing now, training as he did every day before breaking his fast.

He had just succeeded in getting Jon to come to the brothel with him. He briefly wondered if Theon would let them share a whore, before shaking off that thought entirely. Robb had known for a while that there was something wrong with him other than his inability to read with ease like all of the rest of his siblings (except for Rickon of course). 

He had noticed it for the first time when he was two and ten, he had been practicing with Jon, whom had been removed from their power training years prior, trying to learn swordplay. He had reasoned that since most lowborn used the weapon it might be useful to learn the techniques. Jon was amazing. He moved like he was born with the sword in his hand, like how Aegon the Conqueror fought with his black flame-spitting sword Blackfyre, with which he had summoned all the fires of Old Valyria to his command, according to legend. Targaryens were some of the only highborn to regularly use swords, they focused their fire and made it more powerful. According to Maester Luwin that is.

Jon had been getting hot and sweaty at that point, Robb had supposed that it would make sense that his powers didn’t keep Jon’s blood cool. After all, Jon’s snow melted. So, Jon had taken off his shirt and all of a sudden Robb was mesmerised. The rippling muscles on him, beads of sweat dripping down them. He had licked his lips and suddenly felt parched. And then Jon had charged him. And he had suddenly snapped out of his daydream, knowing without a doubt that he was cursed by the gods. That he was… wrong.

He guessed that it made sense. None could be as powerful as he was and not pay a price. While half of House Targaryen had been incredibly powerful, the other half of their House had paid the Gods Price with their sanity. Robb summoned a blizzard larger than the courtyard in his dismay. Fuck. He had to bring this under control before he hurt someone. Father’s powers were ice not snow so he wouldn’t be able to help. Robb focused as hard as he could to control the snowstorm that he had produced. Slowly yet surely it shrank in size until it was a powerful blizzard smaller than Rickon. He closed his fist and with it the blizzard died down to a snowstorm, to a small shower, to a little wisp and finally to nothing at all.

Rodrik Cassel started clapping from the side-lines, he had helped him to train his powers since they first appeared. Due to the fact that he also had a less powerful version of the same powers, with his great-grandfather being a bastard of Donnor Stark. Rodrik always claimed that Robb had the greatest control over his powers that the man had ever seen, and boasted about it at the Smoking Log. It was lucky that his prowess was so well-known Robb supposed, after all Robb wouldn’t have the option of proving his worth in battle if everything went as it was supposed to. 

But then again Robb knew better than anyone that things never went to plan. When they were younger, he and Jon had planned to be lords together. Like how Father shared his responsibilities with Mother. He was never clever like Jon after all, whenever he and Jon were in their lessons with Maester Luwin the numbers and letters had all seemed to mix together and became illegible to him. 

It was oftentimes so frustrating that he had slammed his book or paper onto the table and stormed out, showing his Wolfsblood. Father had had to hold an intervention when he was ten, it had gotten so bad. He had consoled him, apparently his Uncle Brandon had shared in his difficulties when he was a young boy, but had stuck with it and eventual learnt. Apparently, all he had to do was persevere. It didn’t work. But he figured that at least he had immense control over his snow.

On the other hand, Jon didn’t have Robbs shear power, a fact that made them incredibly complimentary Robb thought. At the time it had seemed perfect. Robb Stark and Jon Snow, Lords of Winterfell. He had decided that he didn’t need a wife, not if he had Jon. At that point they were seven and Bran had just been born, so an heir was sorted. They had thought that their plan was set in stone. That no one could stop it. Mother had been horrified and livid when he had told her. Jon had been grounded for a moon afterward for, in his Lady Mother’s words, “Being an evil wyrm”. She had pestered Father to have him fostered with a loyal family, minor or major. 

Of course, childhood dreams were made to be broken. And food was meant to be eaten. Robb finished up his training, breathing heavily, and made his way to the great hall to break his fast.

He still didn’t want a wife.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The great hall was all but empty when Ned arrived, well with the exception of the eternal hustle and bustle of the servants. He sat down in his seat and ran over his plans for the meal; calmly inform Robb of the identity of his future wife Lady Margaery Tyrell, discuss marriage plans with Catelyn for their daughters Sansa and Arya (Sansa in particular), and finally discuss the possibility of fostering with Bran.

He still wondered whether he should have discussed Robb’s marriage with Catelyn, but then again, it was supposed to be a surprise. He was sure that she would be glad to have another Southron Lady with her. Besides with the amount of grain that House Tyrell had offered as a part of Lady Margaery’s dowry it was truly an offer he could not refuse, after the longest summer in his lifetime the coming winter was sure to be long and hard, even for House Stark.

On the terms of his daughters. If the Mormont’s had had a male heir Arya’s marriage would have been sorted. But they did not, and so he honestly had no idea which house would suit her as a Lady. Sansa on the other hand had many options, thankfully not an option which would make her a Queen, at least not without overthrowing Robert. He did think an option with the Southron kingdoms would suit her, but his bannermen would probably want at least his eldest daughter to marry a Northern Lord.

Ned was broken from his thoughts by the arrival of his wife and eldest daughter, whom appeared to be accompanied by her closest friend Jeyne Poole. 

“My ladies, I hope you slept well and are hungry. The cooks have done well today!”

They all confirmed their good health, oohing and ahing over the morning meal presented to them. Ned noticed his wife narrowing her eyes into suspicion and began to pray that this would go well.

Brandon, Arya and Rickon soon emerged with their nursemaid and sat down. Digging into their meal with the fervour of Direwolves as his Lady Wife, Sansa and Jeyne ate with all the delicacy of true Southron Ladies. Robb and Jon arrived soon after, Jon taking his usual seat farthest away from his Lady Wife and Sansa. They ate in relative silence after that before Ned decided to begin the discourse which he had planned.

He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of all sitting at the table.

“So today, Robb, Sansa. I had thought to discuss your future with you.” 

Robb sat up as straight as a rod and froze like Ned’s own ice. Sansa, contrastingly, seemed to practically burn with excitement.

“Oh Father! Have you decided upon our matches! Tell me I shall marry South, oh please!” Sansa squealed excitedly.

Arya snorted “At least then we’ll be rid of your fishy face eh Jon!”. At that Jon scowled at her disapprovingly, causing Arya to blush and appear to try to sink into her seat. “Sorry” she mumbled.

“While I have not yet decided upon your match, I do believe it to be time for you to begin to consider your options with myself and your mother.”

Catelyn interjected “I had thought of Lord Willas Tyrell, he is a cripple yes” at this Jon sat up, taking the same stance as Robb, who seemed to be wringing his hands at this point “but he is also the heir to a Great House and a suitable match for the eldest daughter of House Stark”.

Ned began to sweat with nervousness. Wonderful, now he would have to humiliate his own wife. 

“Your idea is well thought out my love I admit. However, I fear that if we offered them a match the King may think us treacherous due to the amount of favour we have bestowed upon them.”

Catelyn started. “What other favour have we bestowed upon them my lord husband?” she questioned icily. The water in his mug began to tremble.

“My dear, lovely, beautiful wife. Myself and Lord Tyrell have agreed that come Robb’s six and ten name day he and Lord Tyrell’s daughter Margaery shall wed”

Robb looked petrified

Ned chuckled. “You need not worry so much my son. I have heard that the Lady Margaery is exceedingly beautiful and even quite intelligent.”

“I was not worried father. Thank you for this match” Robb said, calming his features.

Catelyn did not look amused. Ned knew that he was in for a long talking to this evening.

Sansa looked rather upset. “But Father, if I won’t marry the Heir of House Tyrell whom shall I marry?”

Ned stated rather calmly “Well Sansa I was greatly considering betrothing you to the Heir of House Bolton”

Catelyn would not take this match it seemed as she injected her thoughts on the matter. “NO. I would rather have you present a marriage offer to Oberyn Martell than marry Sansa in the North. She does not belong here”.

Sansa sniffled. Tears collecting in her eyes as she spluttered out “While I would much rather marry a Southron Lord Mother, you need not have said it in such a manner”. She proceeded to rush out of the great hall, her tears beginning to form a flood.

Ned looked at his wife, he had never been able to deal with crying girls after all. But Catelyn looked too ashamed to even look up. He then looked to Robb, but the boy had asked for ale while he was engaging in the conversation with Sansa and seemed to have already finished two mugs. He was in no fit state to comfort Sansa, that was obvious. Jeyne Poole appeared much too awkward sitting there to do much. And thus, he came to Jon. Who met his eyes, sneered, and then huffed and left the table, following Sansa out at a quick pace.

Well. That had not gone as well as it could have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Sorry if this one's a little shorter. Please comment if you wish! See you again soon!


	7. Air I-The Hand of the King

Being the Hand of the King was no spring breeze Jon Arryn thought as he went over more papers. He often considered himself much too old for this. He would retire if not for the fact that no other man alive could even slightly temper Robert’s activities. Mayhap Ned could. But he was never a good liar, or able to see deception even when it was screaming in his face. King’s Landing would kill the man, of that Jon was sure. And so, he continued. 

He needed to leave soon; Jon knew. For Robert had ordered a new suit of armour to be made, his old one was (unsurprisingly) too tight. Normally Jon would order a squire to do it but Robert had ordered that he commission it in person. One of Robert’s bastards worked at the renowned Smithy where Jon was ordering the King’s armour from, Jon recalled somewhat slowly. He had organised an apprenticeship for the boy. Whatever his name was.

Another responsibility of the Hand of the King was to keep an eye on the King’s bastards. Jon knew that previous Hands had simply checked every now and then that no bastard was gathering armies to rebel. Jon felt this to be to little. They were the King’s children after all, baseborn or not. At the very least they should be kept alive. 

Jon always regretted not arriving at King’s Landing sooner after Robert took the throne. He knew that he would not have been able to prevent the deaths of Princess Elia and her children, but he could definitely have prevented Twin Lannister’s massacre of most of Aerys’, Rhaegar’s and even Jaehaerys’ bastards. He had only arrived in time to prevent the deaths of a couple of Aerys’ daughters, who now worked in some high-end brothels on the street of silks, and a singular bastard son of Rhaegar, whom he sent off to Essos with his mother.

Jon sighed and rubbed his temples, getting up to leave for Tobho Mott’s workshop. On his way there he passed by five young scullery maids, all daughters of Robert whom he had given a job in the keep. They all looked remarkably similar, black of hair, blue of eye. The little girls reminded him of Roberts first daughter, Mya Stone, her mother had been a pretty blonde lowborn woman with brown eyes if he remembered correctly.

It took longer than he would have liked to admit to get to Tobho Mott’s Smithy. If anyone asked it was most certainly due to the busyness of the city and its stench slowing him down. Most certainly not his age. He hadn’t been here in a long time. He immediately spotted Robert’s bastard; the boy looked nigh identical to the King when he was younger. 

“Lord Hand! What a great honour it is to have you in my humble shop!” Tobho Mott said seemingly graciously. The greed was clearly visible in his eyes.

“Mott” he greeted the man amicably “The King requires a new set of armour from you.”

“Of course, my lord! I am his Grace’s ever humble servant.” Tobho Mott bowed deeply.

Jon handed the man the measurements and looked again at the bastard. They truly did look so similar, it almost made him feel young again. The boy also took greatly after his baseborn siblings. It was quite odd actually that all of Robert’s baseborn children took after him. Whereas none of his trueborn children looked anything like him at all. 

As he thought this, the bastard struck the molten metal producing a thunderous sound, sparks crackling like lightning. Jon started. None of Robert’s trueborn children had his thunder either, whereas all his baseborn daughters had the lightning common to the does of House Baratheon. And this son had thunder. A sinking feeling of dread settled in Jon’s heart. Mya Stone’s mother. She was blonde. Cersei was blonde. As were all of her children.

Jon called the bastard over.

“M’lord. How can I serve you?” the boy bowed deeply.

Jon braced himself and asked “Just a few questions boy. Firstly, what is your name?”

“Gendry m’lord”

“A strong name. What does your mother look like Gendry?”

Gendry as he now knew the boy to be called looked confused for a few moments before answering “I only remember that she had the most beautiful blonde hair, she died when I was only a little boy m’lord.”

The sinking feeling grew. “Thank you boy. Tell your master I will return for the armour in three days.

Jon left for the red keep feeling incredibly distressed. It was all too much for one day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The evening meal was always the best part of Jon’s day. No politics. Just his wife, no matter how much she disliked him, and their loving son. The fact that he even had a son, heck a child, still felt surreal to him now, near seven years after the boy’s birth. It was calming. His wife, looking severe as always, offered him a glass of wine. He drank it quickly, he definitely needed it after the day he’d had. Tomorrow. He would look through the Great Book of Lineages. And he would hope against the odds to find some blonde haired Baratheons. 

At least, he thought with dark humour, the Queen was known to be pure Lannister with both of her parents being members of House Lannister and there was no Targaryen heritage in her lineage. Myrcella at least was certainly a Baratheon. And wasn’t that hilarious. The only one of the King’s children which was certainly his had inherited seemingly all of the traditional Valyrian traits. Silver of hair, violet of eye, even fire, he had seen her lighting a fire in her hands once and never forgot it. Of course, he had never mentioned this fact to anyone, the Princess would be killed, and her death would undoubtably start another war. Oh, the irony. The only definitely legitimate child was a Targaryen in all but name. It was almost as if the gods were trying to tell him something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Jon Arryn awoke, he felt ill. Almost certainly due to the book that he knew awaited him in the library. Getting up was so tiring that he almost fell asleep. Walking made the walls spin as he slowly made his way to break his fast. 

His wife was waiting for him at the table, pouring herself another glass of wine. 

“Wine, husband?” 

His wife rarely offered anything to him. So of course, he accepted. He would need it for today. 

Lysa spoke up “Are you doing anything of much import today husband? I know that Sweetrobin would like to spend some time with you.”

He was shocked. His wife rarely offered him things and they seldom talked to one another. Today he was getting both. He hoped it wasn’t to even out bad news.

“Not much no, I have a small council meeting to attend and some books to assess but that is all. I hope that I will be able to spend at least a little time with my son today. How is his illness?” he answered anxiously.

“That is good. Sweetrobin is doing well. His diet helps things muchly.” His little wife replied.

Ah. Yes. His son’s diet. Lysa was still feeding him from her own breast even though the boy was nearly seven. He didn’t approve of it. But Robert was the only one of his children to survive so he and Lysa must be doing something right. And thus, he let it continue.

He decided that since this rare interaction with his wife appeared to be going so well, he would attempt to continue it. “And you wife? Are you well? Are you doing anything of interest this day?”

Lysa replied with a tight smile on her face “I am as well as one can be in this stenchole of a city husband. Today I have been invited to join Her Grace in the sewing circle.”

Jon smiled guiltily “That is good dear wife, mayhap you could sew me a favour? And I do agree. The city could really do with some improvement.” He decided to try for a jape “After all when a district is called Fleabottom it can hardly be a good sign!”.

Lysa didn’t laugh but instead smiled that wretched tight-lipped smile again. “Mayhap. Yes. The city could certainly do with some improvement. It is unfortunate that the Crown does not have the funds for such a project. I am sure that the people of King’s Landing would have been forever grateful.”

Jon smiled softly. Deep down. His wife cared for all people, even the smallfolk. He always felt ashamed. She should have been married to his son or grandson. Not him. Lysa did not deserve to be married to such an old and weary man. And yet he was selfish. He still loved her despite their lack of interaction throughout their married years. For despite all of her miscarriages and stillborn babes. She was the only one of his wives to give him a living son, sickly though he was. And for that he would always love her, even if their son did not survive to adulthood.

They continued their meal in an amicable silence. It had been their longest conversation in moons.

After finishing his meal Jon excused himself and left for the library. Heart pounding, filled with a nervous sweat. He almost felt as if he were going to be sick but held it in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The library smelled of old books. Which is quite possibly the least surprising thing ever. It made Jon relax a bit. He probably wouldn’t find anything after all. He approached the book that Grand Maester Pycelle had procured for him . It had been written a long time ago, by Grand Maester Malleon and detailed the lineages of all the major houses of the Seven Kingdoms, most importantly for him the marriages and children of House Baratheon.

He opened it to the first page of the Baratheons and dove in. Black of hair blue of eye, black of hair blue of eye, black of hair blue of eye and on and on it went. The same words scorched his eyes over and over. And then his eyes focused on one marriage in particular. Gowen Baratheon married Tya Lannister. One son. He slowly moved his eyes over. The same words were there as well. Black of hair. Blue of eye.

He was sure. Roberts only trueborn child was the Princess Myrcella. His “trueborn” sons were bastards. Whose bastards he could not say as both took heavily after their mother. And then a thought struck him. She and her cousin Lancel had appeared to be very close in public recently, what if they had always been so close. By the gods. He was too old to deal with this.

One thing was for sure. Robert could not be told until the children were out of the city. All of them. In his initial rage he would undoubtably kill them all. Even his trueborn daughter. Especially his trueborn daughter. His heir taking after the Queen was one thing. His heir taking after the Targaryen in his blood was another thing entirely.

How would he do it. Joffrey and Tommen Waters could be escorted to Essos soon enough, or perhaps sent to live at Casterly Rock with their Grandfather. The Princess Myrcella, who, in his mind at least, had just been elevated to the Heiress to the Iron Thone. She could be sent to the Vale with his wife and son, just in case this situation became violent. 

Ser Jaime Lannister would undoubtedly go with them, he never let the Princess out of his sight. Jon was sure he knew of her powers. Jon started in realisation. The Princess would have to be trained in the art of battle if she were to be Queen in her own right. Many would not agree with her rule. That could be exceptionally difficult. Not only to find a man willing to train a girl to use her powers and not to supress them. But also to find someone to teach her to control fire, no one in all of Westeros could control flames anymore, it was a wonder that she hadn’t burnt down the entire keep after a nightmare. 

The Queen. She would have to die. She had cuckolded the King, claimed her bastard sons to be his heirs. That was treason. And death was the only available punishment. Jon rubbed his temples in frustration. Why. Why did this have to happen. His wife would certainly not approve of such an action. He was too old to deal with this.

That night Jon Arryn fell dreadfully ill. His Maester tried to treat him to no avail. He died in the morning as the bells tolled for the King’s second father.

His last words. 

Robert. 

The Seed is Strong. 

Princess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, Jon Arryn got a chapter all to himself, note that this will not be continuing. Turns out writing over 2000 words for a single character is pretty damn hard. But I felt bad that he died soooo.  
Anyway feel free to comment, it always makes me super happy to know that you guys like the story :)  
Seeya soon!


	8. Storm II and Ice V-Brotherhood

Jon Arryn was dead. King Robert Baratheon, First of his Name, had always known that this day would come. Realistically, he had known for years that it would likely come relatively soon. Jon Arryn was an old man after all. And yet it still came as a surprise. Letters had already been sent out on the wings of ravens as black as night to all of the major houses of the Seven Kingdoms, as well as all the minor houses of the Vale, telling of the Warden of the East’s demise.

The bells which he had ordered to be rung for his foster father’s death drummed in his ears even now, hours after they had stopped tolling. He couldn’t do this without Jon. Robert knew deep down that he was never meant to be king. He much preferred whoring, drinking and warring to ruling and keeping the peace.

His rebellion had been the greatest point in his life. All three of his favourite pastimes combined, along with a good excuse. His dear Lyanna had been lost. Robert had known that he could never love another woman other than Lady Lyanna Stark from the moment that he first saw her, wild Stark hair flowing freely as she rode into the Eyrie on a mule. She had been visiting Ned and payed him little attention. No matter how much he tried, only cold courtesies were afforded to him where Ned received the most beautiful smiles and laughter. She was the perfect Lady. 

While every other person in the Seven Kingdoms called the war which had ended with himself sat on the Iron Throne Robert’s Rebellion. Robert called it by another name. The War for House Stark. The deaths of Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon had rallied all of their allies to his cause, before that no one had seemed willing to go after that Mad Prince for stealing his Lyanna. His future wife. 

He remembered the joy coursing like lightning through his body as he struck the Mad Prince down with his thunderous hammer. A weapon first wielded by Orys Baratheon, a weapon which contained all the power of the storm. He vividly recalled the triumph he had felt when all of Rhaegar’s children, trueborn and bastard, were laid before him by Lord Lannister. Mangled and torn. 

He knew now that his happiness when faced with such a thing was a grave afront to the gods. After all, why else would his trueborn children take after him so little? The boys were all their mother, in both appearance and powers. And the girl. The girl was a Princess of House Targaryen reborn as a Baratheon. It would make sense he supposed, that for his crimes against House Targaryen the one daughter he had to marry off would be a Targaryen in all but name. He usually could not even bear to look at the girl.

He could feel the Mad Prince laughing at him from beyond the grave. Ever since the girl’s birth, he had increased his efforts in removing all things Targaryen from King’s Landing. He even had tried to desecrate the ashes of the old Targaryen Kings and Queens held in the Red Keep at one point. Jon had argued heavily against that though, so instead he simply had them moved to the deepest parts of the castle where the dragon skulls were held. 

But he couldn’t get rid of everything which symbolised House Targaryen. Not even most. Seemingly all of the buildings in King’s Landing were littered with statues or carvings of dragons. Everywhere he stepped he found yet another. Seven hells, even his own flesh and blood gazed at him with the purple eyes of the Valyrians. And he couldn’t very well get rid of her completely! Sending her off to Dragonstone for more than a quarter of the year made those snakes at court whisper enough.

On the subject of his daughter. Jon had spoken of her with his last words, hadn’t he? The seed is strong. Robert. Princess. He must have been trying to say something. Robert was his son. Mayhap he had been attempting to convince Robert in his dying breathes that Jon’s heir was strong. That he deserved a Princess for a bride. The boy was only two years younger than his daughter. Mayhap it would be a good idea to reward Jon’s many years of loyalty to him with a Princess for a good daughter. 

It would be unfortunate though. Robert had hoped to finally join Houses Baratheon and Stark with a marriage between her and Ned’s heir Robb. Mayhap he could marry his younger son to one of Ned’s daughters. Whatever their names were. He’d have to ask Jon about it. And then he remembered. Jon was dead.

Buggering fuck. Who on Planetos could he rely on to be his hand in this den of dragons now? Certainly not the Lannisters, gods know they already had enough power in this wretched place without him naming Tywin as his hand. Littlefinger was good with whores and money but he was a slimy shit. Varys. Varys was Varys. And his brothers. His brothers and he had never gotten along well, not since he and Stannis were young boys.

He’d have to call on Ned. He almost felt sorry for the sucker, forcing him here. But gods knew he could not, nay would not go through this hell alone. Call him selfish for all he cared. He needed Ned with him now. Especially with his son’s wedding quickly approaching. In less than four years he would have a good daughter. Who would have thought he’d have lasted this long? Well, if he was going to drag Ned down here, he’d likely have to fetch him himself.

Ned hated King’s Landing even more than himself after all. What with the deaths of his father and brother. He’d sworn never to return to this cursed place. Claiming that Stark’s never did well in the South. Convincing him would likely be exceptionally difficult. Mayhap he should bring his niece with him to shock some sense into the man. She may have been crippled but the Baratheon blood ran strong in that one. It was why he’d chosen her for Joffrey after all.

But he and Ned were brothers in all but blood. So, he knew that he would be able to win him over eventually. Even if it meant tossing men to the wall and chucking around marriage contracts left, right and centre. Ned would be his hand even if he had to drag him down with his bare hands.

Now who in the seven hells did he order to organise a trip North. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ned Stark was sitting in his solar bemoaning his current family state when the news came. It was only yesterday that the disastrous conversation had occurred. His wife, and their two eldest children hadn’t talked to him since. The only good thing that seemed to have come from it, was the almost friendly manner with which Sansa had spoken to Jon this morrow.

Of course, due to his nephew-son’s and elder daughter’s newfound friendship Arya was refusing to speak to Jon. Because of this Rickon, whom had taken to following Arya around everywhere when he was allowed to, had started growling at Jon whenever he came near. On that note, Ned was beginning to be quite worried about Rickon, he oftentimes seemed to be almost possessed by his Wolfsblood.

Ned rubbed his brows. After a single conversation his entire family appeared to have become even more divided than it already was. Catelyn ignoring Rickon, Arya and Bran to try to make up with Sansa. Robb had drunk his day away yesterday and was still abed with a hangover, Theon appeared to have encouraged him. Jon and Arya broken apart. Sansa only talking to Jon (and wasn’t that the most unlikely occurrence). Who would have thought a few marriage contracts would divide his family so. Wait…

Oh, gods be good. It was Brandon and Lyanna all over again. Robb appeared to have reacted to his betrothal just like Brandon, drinking and probably whoring his way around Winter town. The only difference between the two betrothal events was that this time Sansa was upset at not having a betrothed, whereas Lyanna had been so incredibly angry that she would be espoused to Robert. Ned hadn’t understood at the time, after all Robert was his best friend and his brother in all but blood. And Robert had loved her so very much. Besides he was a future Lord Paramount, what Lady, be they Southron or Northern, wouldn’t want to marry him? 

Well the answer to that question had been Lyanna. She had told him. He hadn’t listened. She had said that she was a wild Direwolf of House Stark, not a pet to be kept at her Lord Husband’s pleasure as he continued to fuck other women. But he had insisted and continued to encourage their Father to set up a betrothal between them.

He really shouldn’t have been convinced by Robert that she had been kidnapped. But he had been nigh mad with grief and thus it had been shockingly easy to convince him that the evil Targaryen Prince, the son of the Mad King, had taken his sister.

But Lyanna was a she-wolf of House Stark through and through. She wouldn’t have allowed Rhaegar to take her unwillingly, even if he melted her snow, she would sooner have stabbed him through with a dagger than let herself be taken and raped as Robert had insisted had happened.

He shouldn’t have believed that Rhaegar was evil either. However, he had met the Prince only once before, at Harrenhal. Thus, it had been easy to believe that the Mad King’s son was just like his father. A belief which was contrasted deeply by all that he had seen of him; his love of songs and the high harp, the noble way in which he jousted, holding his head high and helping to raise up his fallen opponents. As well as from the love which Lyanna held for him, a love that was not to be held lightly. 

Over the years since the Rebellion he had come to the conclusion that Prince Rhaegar had almost certainly been a good man. Simply a man who was consumed by his love for the wrong woman, and she consumed with love for him. It wasn’t unsurprising in the end, he supposed, the fact that they had eloped. After all love is the death of duty.

He sighed once more. It sometimes seemed as if his life was nothing but a pile of regrets and lies. He even regretted the Rebellion at some points. Even so far from King’s Landing they had heard the stories of the Baratheon King. That he was fatter than his sigil was after a long and bountiful summer, that he had more women than the stag did does. That he cared much more for hunting than he did ruling and spent money like it was going out of fashion.

But even if he was as bad a King and the rumours implied, Robert was still his brother. And thus, Ned would remain as loyal to the Baratheon Crown as he could possibly be with the Targaryen heir to the throne hidden safely within his walls.

Maester Luwin came in then, carrying two letters sealed with the Baratheon Stag. On reading them his already unhappy life was smashed into infinitesimal pieces.

Jon Arryn was dead. The Hand of the King was dead.

And the King himself along with the entire Royal Family were coming to Winterfell. A fact there was only one possible reason for. He knew in his heart, that a Stark would soon be going south once more to King’s Landing.

Only one word came to mind as tears produced by a combination of frustration and grief came to his eyes.

“Fuck.”


	9. Ice VI-A King is coming to Winterfell

The entirety of Winterfell had gotten itself all in a tizzy since the news had broken that the King was coming. Maids bustled about carrying everything from the best bedsheets to some exotic delicacies specially bought in via the Manderlys. The grooms and manservants were carrying so many gallons of ale Jon honestly thought that it would be impossible for any party, King or no, to finish it all off. And all the while Lady Stark was monitoring the progress being made and screaming orders at people. It hadn’t been so bad yesterday, but now there was less than two hours before the Royal Party was set to arrive, bringing with them many highborn folks of both major and minor Houses. 

Jon had been quizzing Robb on his sigils for weeks now. Honestly, if it had been hard to teach him the sigils of the major Northern houses, teaching him the sigils of the other major Houses he did not know, ranging from the Riverlands to Dorne had been hell on Planetos. It had almost made him want to jump into the large burning hearth in the Kitchens he had been so frustrated.

Although it had been somewhat successful, he supposed, Robb now knew over 60% of the answers to his questions. Jon had barely tried to teach him the names of the lords and their heirs, well except for the important ones to know. Such as House Tyrell and House Baratheon. Jon was proud to say that Robb now knew every single member of the Royal Family by name, even the extended family, and their respective places in the line of succession. 

However, today was the day of arrival, and thus everybody was busy with the last-minute preparations, from the scullery maids to Lord Stark himself. Everyone except him.

Jon sighed. He would be all alone today it seemed. Sansa had been sat sewing and embroidering in her chambers for days now, he had been immediately chased out yesterday so she could focus on the finishing touches to her masterpiece of a dress. Arya still wasn’t really talking to him, though he hoped that would soon change as he had ordered the blacksmith to make a small blade, which he was planning to give to her for her name day. 

Rickon’s bad habit of growling at him, along with Arya ignoring his existence due to him and Sansa being friendly now, sadly seemed to have rubbed off on Bran, who had taken to teasing him. At least he and Robb could still hang about amicably together today, he had thought. Unfortunately for Jon, Robb had been whisked away by Lord Stark to practice his courtesies. Not simply for the King, but also for his betrothed. It seemed that on its way up the King’s Road the royal party had been picking up new members, House Tyrell and some of their bannermen being among them.

Jon actually thought that he was happier with Robb’s marriage than Robb was. Not only for the crops and Abor wine. A marriage alliance between House Tyrell and House Stark would increase the chance of continued peace in the Seven Kingdoms exponentially. The engagement gift that Lady Margaery had sent Robb also helped. 

It was a beverage originating from the free cities of Essos named “Brown Tea”, one simply had to have a mug of boiling hot water and then add this small sieve, called a tea strainer and then pour the leaves into the strainer. After that one let it sit for a little bit before taking the strainer out and drinking it. Robb hated the stuff, claiming it looked like water with shit in it and that nothing should be so hot. Then again Robb seemed to detest any beverage that didn’t contain strong alcohol in it these days. Jon wasn’t complaining though. While literally every other member of his family hated it with a passion. Jon loved it. He had already had two mugs today and was working on his third.

Jon sat down a barrel of hay and sighed. Sipping at his mug of tea. Oh, how he couldn’t wait for the feast this evening. Having all those highborn members of court order him around like a servant. Being ignored by even Sansa and Robb in favour of the Royal Family and other highborn. What joy. He sipped at his tea again. What joy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sansa Stark was stressed. Sansa had never really fit in with the rest of the Stark family. Where her brother Robb and sister Arya had the power over snow (both the element and the person) and Brandon ice, she was a true Tully fish, with the ability to make most water do her bidding.

The fact that her powers were Tully not Stark was actually the reason why she had always tried so hard to be a Southron Lady, both because no Northern House would want a Stark with no ice and thus a Southron marriage was truly her only option and that a Southron Lady never used their powers, only suppressed them. She had never wanted to see the thing that made her completely different from her family, save mayhap Jon Snow.

It had hurt her initially when, almost two moons prior, after the disastrous conversation where Robb walked out with a Southron bride he obviously didn’t want for whatever reason and she without a betrothal to an heir to a Great House as she had always dreamed, it was Jon who had come to comfort her.

Of course, she hadn’t wanted to see either Mother or Father at that point. What with Mother’s cold statement that she didn’t belong in the North, a fact, which, of course, she already knew. Not that it hurt any less. And Father’s evident lack of consideration for her. He had wanted to marry her into House Bolton! The eternal enemy of their House! Nor would Arya or Bran have been any comfort. But she had thought that at least her big brother Robb or best friend Jeyne would come running after her.

But no. Instead she had made it to the Godswood, collapsing before the Heart Tree before anyone had come after her. And as she had looked up, tears still flooding from her eyes, there, standing in the place where she had expected to find her parents, Robb or Jeyne, was Jon Snow. They had sent her bastard half-brother after her. She truly didn’t mean anything to any of them did she.

She had tried to reign in her tears she remembered. To act as a Northern Lady would in her situation. But she could not. For Sansa was, and mayhap would always be, a Southron flower. So, she had continued to weep and wail out her woes to her half brother as he held her tight. She knew that Jon didn’t like her. And yet he had still come, still held her to him as if she hadn’t treated him with the utmost disrespect.

As her tears had begun to dry, seemingly evaporating from her body as she pressed her cheek against his boiling chest. He had told her something that she had remembered word for word and repeated to herself each night.

“Whenever I feel like I don’t belong here, in Winterfell, in the North, I lose myself to my grievances. At least until I remember that I still have the Blood of the First Men running through my veins. And you sweet sister, you have a better claim to belonging here than I. You may have powers known to flourish in the Riverlands, in House Tully. But you were born here in Winterfell as the trueborn daughter of the Lord of Winterfell. I was born as a bastard somewhere far south of here. And yet I still know myself to be a Direwolf of House Stark, as you should know yourself to be, with absolute certainty. You will always have a place in the North, should you wish it, just as you will always have a place in the South. Never forget that.”

Jon’s speech had made her cry even more. There were more words in it than she had ever spoken to him in her entire life. And she could tell that he had meant every word that he had said. Why? Why had she always treated the one member of her family, other than her mother, whom could understand the lack of belonging she felt with such dislike?

She had been trying to make amends to Jon since then. He had become the only person other than Jeyne that she would talk with. Though she did feel guilty that her friendship (she couldn’t quite call it sisterhood) with Jon, had stopped Arya from talking to him, they had always been so close. But she enjoyed their conversations too much to stop them. She hadn’t known that she knew so little about him. Before all she had really known about him was what her Mother had told her, that he was a bastard born of sin, with such useless powers that he was basically a foot soldier drawn from the smallfolk, that he was a clever and cunning wyrm who sought to overthrow Robb. And most importantly that she was to stay away from him.

She knew why Mother had wanted her away from him now. If she had talked to him, then Sansa would have known her Mother to be a Mummer. Jon was reserved and stoic yes, but he was also kind and gentle. He was also funny in an odd sarcastic sort of way. And he obviously cared for all of their family members save mayhap mother, and herself in the beginning. Jon was her very own Prince Charming. Well expect for the marriage part. Sansa could never marry a bastard, especially not her own half-brother. House Stark hadn’t held such incestuous marriages since Cregan and Lynara Stark married in 138 AC, their siblinghood having been long since wiped from the history books.

She was sewing a handkerchief for him now. She knew it would certainly be nothing compared to his gift to her of her sweet Lady, one of the Direwolves her brothers and Theon had found on the way back from an execution two days prior (Jon had convinced Father not to kill them and had picked out Lady for her). But she hadn’t had the time nor the materials to make a new doublet for him, at least not without raising eyebrows. Jon had always seemed fond of black so she had chosen black woollen fabric as a base and had embroidered it with a white wolf’s head with red eyes like his Ghost and embroidered a pretty trail of winter roses lining it. She may have gotten a little carried away. 

In the lead up to the King’s visit they had taken to her sewing her teal gown with silver embroidery as he read, curled up on the chair in her chambers, but of course he could not be allowed to see her gift so yesterday she had sent him away claiming that she needed to focus, of course she only did this after she had finished her gown. Sansa was intending to give it to him today, before the King arrived but soon after putting the finishing touches on it Septa Mordane had whisked her away to practice her courtesies, as if she did not already know them well enough. So, Sansa figured that she would give it to him before the feast in the eve.

She curtsied once more to Septa Mordane, as she had been doing for the past hour. Who knew that the perfect curtsy would require over an hour of practice?

“And what do you say now. You are greeting Lord Tyrell in this event.” The Septa barked.

Sansa held in her eye roll and replied “My Lord Tyrell, it is an honour to make your most noble acquaintance, I hope that you find Winterfell welcoming and I look forward to spending more time with my future good sister, your daughter the Lady Margaery”. Sansa was quite impressed that she said that with so little sarcasm.

“Very good Sansa. But try to sound sweeter when you talk to a Lord or Lady. You do want them to recommend you as a prospective wife to their powerful lordly friends, do you not?” The Septa said.

To be perfectly honest Sansa didn’t truly care that much anymore, whom and where she would be marrying, so long as she had Lady and Jon with her. Of course, she could most certainly not say this to Septa Mordane, so instead she went with.

“Of course, Septa, I shall try harder.”

“Good. How would you greet a member of House Martell should any come?”

Here we go again. Sansa knew for a fact now.

This would be a very long day.


	10. Fire II-Hated Siblings

If Jaime had to talk with that little shit of a son/nephew of his one more time. He swore to the old gods and the new that he would soon be both a Kingslayer and a Princeslayer. They had been traveling on the King’s Road for well near two moons now and Jaime was going absolutely crazy. 

Now normally, Jaime was only guarding Myrcella, or on occasion both Myrcella and Tommen. However, with the dangers of the monarch traveling a long distance, even (or mayhap especially) while within an extremely large, seemingly constantly growing party, most of the Kingsguard were assigned to the King and Queen themselves. One Kingsguard was with the Lady Shireen, as the future Crown Princess and eventually Queen. 

Thus, it was he and the Hound, two of the best fighters in the Seven Kingdoms, whom were assigned to guard all of the royal children on the direct orders of the King himself. Even though he shared the responsibility with the Hound and a number of foot soldiers, Jaime still had to spend way more time than he would like (that being around two minutes) with Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. 

They had just stopped for lunch, a couple of miles from Winterfell itself, when the incident had occurred. Jaime had been sparring with the Hound as the children watched from the side-lines. The earth was rising to meet both of their desires, banging and grinding, the noises a thrill to his ears, when a boulder broke off of one of the Hound’s attacks heading straight at Jaime’s head. Myrcella and Tommen screamed as Joffrey began to laugh nigh hysterically. Jaime did the thing which came most naturally to him at the time, he drew his spare sword, and, he used his flames to melt the boulder in half with a flaming sword. 

Now. In most occasions this would be a reason to panic. However, Jaime already had a plan of how to explain this accident away. After all, the spare sword of Jaime Hill was not any ordinary sword. The Kingslayer carried a normal sword, made by the best Blacksmith in all of Westeros as his primary weapon. But in the event of it breaking, Jaime carried Valyrian steel. Ser Jaime’s secondary weapon was a Valyrian Steel sword, know to nearly all in the Seven Kingdoms as the sword of Queen Visenya Targaryen. Dark Sister.

The sword had been thought lost to all. Buried somewhere beyond the wall in the cold dead hands of Ser Brynden Rivers. Instead, before leaving beyond the wall for the ranging which Brynden had somehow known was to be his last, he gave the sword to his grand-nephew, Maester Aemon Targaryen. 

Rhaegar had gone to visit the old Maester once, returning less than a moon before the Rebellion had broken out. Rhaegar had not ever told Jaime of what had been discussed between the two, nor why Rhaegar would not carry Dark Sister into battle with him. No matter how much Jaime had tried to convince him. Rhaegar had simply given it to him, to hold onto for safekeeping, until Prince Aegon could wield it. An event which would not never come to pass. Because of Jaime. Even now, Jaime thought that Rhaegar had known that he would not be returning from war. Even now, Jaime thought that if he had carried the unbreakable Valyrian steel he might have.

Jaime’s argument with his loving son had ended with him being dragged him before the King, with Joffrey accusing him, not of being Aerys’ bastard (the boy wasn’t that idiotic), but of being possessed by the Mad Kings fire (actually Jaime took that earlier statement back, he very well may be that idiotic). Jaime had argued that the magic of the Targaryen’s had kept some of their flames in the blade.

Luckily King Robert Baratheon was an idiot and fell for it like a doe walks into a trap. Jaime didn’t like the looks Varys was giving him though. Of course, terribly entertainingly if Jaime did say so himself, Joffrey went as red as a Targaryen dragon and started going on about how Jaime was a coward who couldn’t even protect himself from his own element with his powers. And was questioning how a Kingsguard who used a sword was allowed to keep his white cloak. Robert evidently found this question hilarious and started banging his fists on the table with laughter. He then proceeded to remind Joffrey and the rest of the court that Jaime’s sword had stabbed the Mad King in the back. 

The boy had stormed off then, every bit a mad dragon. Ranting and raving as he was now. Jaime grit his teeth. One more word. One more word and that little shit would be a pile of ashes. A cry from a voice he intimately recognised called out.

“Joff! Joff darling! Come to mummy, we need to get you ready to meet with those filthy savages the Starks!” 

Cersei. He and Cersei had not been together ever since Jaime had found her fucking their cousin Lancel. To be fair Jaime had also had sex with Lancel a couple of times after getting incredibly drunk. But still. Apparently their “relationship” had begun after Myrcella’ s birth. Thus, Tommen’s sire could have been either of them. That had hurt like all of the tortures of the seven hells. They had been together forever; they were meant to live together and die together. Only them. She had betrayed him. And he hated her for it. What he hated even more was that he still loved her. He loved her so much that he couldn’t leave.

“Oh, Ser Jaime. I hope that you have been keeping my daughter in line, where my sweet gentle Joff cannot?” Cersei said in a sickeningly sweet drawl.

Please. The day Joff was sweet and gentle was the day a Lannister fell for a Stark.

“Of course, your Grace. Is there anything else I may be of service with?”

“Yes. Go and get the girl and little Tommy dressed for arrival at Winterfell. Though they are savages the Starks are still Lords Paramount unfortunately. So, we must dress for the occasion”. 

“Of course, my Queen.” Jaime said. Voice as hard as stone. While Jaime hated how distant they now were, it also made him feel smug. 

Jaime dreaded seeing the Starks again. That Stark girl had been his beautiful Rhaegar’s doom with her wild beauty. He just hoped that the Starks wouldn’t be his sweet Mrycella’s doom. Without Myrcella. He wouldn’t know what to do.

Also, mayhap that her would find a Stark girl as pretty as his brother turned lover had found.

In some ways he really missed Cersei.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Myrcella was never the favoured child of the King and Queen. She had known this ever since she could think. The Queen hated her for her gender and assumed parentage. The King for her silver hair and purple eyes. But she had always consoled herself, even before she knew the truth, that at least she had Uncle Jaime. 

Even before she knew herself to be a dragon (a dragon of black yes, but a dragon nonetheless) Uncle Jaime, Father, had always been her one true parent. Until Tommen, he was the only one who truly loved her. He wouldn’t let the King sell her off to House Arryn. To live out her days likely a widow by twenty. Truly the King had never favoured her at all to even consider such a cruel and distant marriage.

Even now, she still did not understand why her Queenly Mother favoured Joffrey so. Joffrey was cruel, conceited and even psychotic at times. Truly a mad dragon. Like Mother she supposed. Mother could be so terribly cruel. Not simply to her, Mother didn’t even seem to remember that Tommen existed unless she was looking straight at him. Mother was also incredibly vain, all in the Kingdom knew of her beauty. And she had to keep it that way.

Myrcella hoped that mother wasn’t as mad as Joffrey though. The King did not look well most of the time. And Mother would likely be Queen Regent before Joffrey became King. Myrcella hoped that war would not break out under her watch. And that Shireen could figure out how to control Joffrey before he became King. Though she feared that Shireen would not be able. For Joffrey seemed to have no room for love in his stone heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dany was so very lonely. She had thought that being married would make her happier. Make Viserys kinder. It did not. He was not. Her handmaids were not friends but merely slaves so submissive, no matter how kind she was to them, that at times they seemed more like kicked dogs than servants. Her only solaces were her eggs and the baby.

Less than a week prior, the healer had confirmed what Dany had suspected. She was with child. Daenerys was terribly proud to give her Kingly brother-husband an heir, she hoped it would be a boy, an Aegon to reconquer Westeros with. Dany was happy to soon have someone who would love her unconditionally. She hoped for a kind and loving Rhaella, or a musical Rhaegar.

But Daenerys also knew that there was a large chance the babe would die or be stillborn, as so many of their mother’s babes had been. Dany wouldn’t listen to her though. Her babe would be fine. A boy to keep Viserys happy. At least with her pregnancy Viserys had stopped hitting them. 

The Magister had told him that he couldn’t for fear of hurting his pureblood heir. The eggs the Magister had given her on she and Viserys’ wedding day glowed in the fire giving off a comforting warmth. Begging her to come closer. Begging her to release her flames. Begging her to bleed. She sometimes gave in and fed the flames which surrounded them as a cradle does a babe. But she always stopped before she slit her stomach open.

Viserys had ranted and raved like a mad dragon for hours after Illyrio gifted them to her not him. The Magister had only managed to calm him down by saying that it was the woman’s place to be around babes and children, not a man’s. So, he could not very well have given the eggs to Viserys, who was the Kingliest of Kings and Manliest of Men. Viserys had calmed and chuffed up at that.

Dany did not think it was necessarily true. After all. What babes demanded their Mother’s blood?

She rose and was helped into her dress by one of her handmaiden slaves. Daenerys wanted to take in some air and stroll about the gardens. Dany wanted to explore and listen into the conversations of the other guests; her handmaidens were really terribly boring.

The air was as pleasantly hot as ever, although unfortunately a cool breeze ran through the gardens. She walked on and on. Smelling the blossoms. There were all types of fruits and flowers in the Magister’s gardens. Sweet and sour in taste. Strong and soft in odour. She received some of her scented oils from flowers grown in these very gardens. She strolled and strolled before she came across something rather odd. Magister Illyrio was in a slave’s room. And not a bed slave. Daenerys knew she should not, but Dany couldn’t help herself.

Dany crept up to the doorway as silently as possible and then lurked next to it. The conversation was quiet and she could barely hear anything.

“How g##s th#### ##th the little griffin?”

“Well my lord”

“Goo#. The old## d##gon is ####ly mad ## ### father”

“The g###l will ma### th little griffin th##?”

“Yes. Prepare for the sie##.”

“Understood, my lord. It shall be done.”

Dany nearly gasped as she understood what was going on. The Magister was plotting to remove her brother! But there was little time to dwell on this as the voices grew louder and the two men approached the doorway. Daenerys ran as quickly and quietly as she could away from the scene.

Daenerys needed to warn her brother-husband, the father of her child.

Dany wanted to watch him burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the tiny Myrcella interlude. I find Dany and Daenerys (She has a weird/fictionalised version of split personality disorder) super hard to write.


	11. Ice VII-When you've had a bad day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for just randomly stopping updating every day. I'm preparing to go to university on Thursday so I've been pretty busy. Going forward, I'm going to be slowing my uploads to about one or maybe two chapters a week. Due to university commitments.  
I hope you guys understand and that you enjoy this chapter. Bear in mind I'm uploading this at half past 3 and can't think of a good chapter name.

The day that Ned Stark had always feared would come was here. King Robert Baratheon was coming to Winterfell, and with him, the few people left alive whom had known Prince Rhaegar Targaryen well enough to possibly recognise some of his features in Jon. Ned was particularly aware that he would have to find a way to isolate Jon from Ser Barristan Selmy and the Kingslayer, both of whom had been members of the Kingsguard under Mad King Aerys as well as Robert. 

Ser Barristan would be the one most likely to recognise Jon’s father in him, Ned thought. After all, it was doubtful that the Kingslayer, whom had only been in the Kingsguard, and thus in the presence of the former Royal Family, for two years when Rhaegar had gone off and died in battle against Robert, would remember Rhaegar enough to recognise Jon’s Valyrian nose and eye shape. 

No. Ser Barristan was the one whom it was most important to keep Jon away from, he had watched the Silver Prince grow up after all, and had spent over twenty years in the Kingsguard under Targaryen rulers. Luckily keeping Jon away from him would be easy, no powerful Kingsguard in their right mind would be seen dead with a weak bastard. The Kingslayer may be more difficult though.

Normally keeping a son who did not excel at using his powers (in fact having contradicting powers which actively worked against one another) away from members of the Kingsguard would be easy. After all, no Kingsguard would deign to spare a thought for such a weak trueborn son, let alone a bastard. However, where Jon lacked in his powers, he made up for in sword play. And the Kingslayer was known across Westeros to not only have great prowess with his powers, but also great skill as a swordsman. The man was too narcissistic in Ned’s own opinion to not be the best swordsman in Westeros as well as the most powerful elemental user.

Because so few nobles were trained swordsmen, and no member of the smallfolk, even mercenaries, could use a sword with such talent, it was a real risk that when Robb inevitably sparred with the Kingslayer, (Robb would likely annoy the man to death if he did not acquis to at least one duel) he would see the man’s sword and reveal how talented his baseborn brother was with one. If that happened Ned feared it would be impossible to keep Jon away from the Lannister who had allowed his half-brother and half-sister to die, although The Princess Rhaenys had burned Ser Amory Lorch alive before she died from the wounds inflicted upon her by him.

It had been a huge relief when Ned had found out that Jon hadn’t inherited his Father’s family’s powers. A fire breathing baby would have been somewhat hard to hide, especially in a kingdom of ice. Thankfully Jon had inherited a horrible mix of his parents’ powers, something which only incredibly rarely happened. Most children inherited their Father’s powers after all, a fact which made the years leading up to Jon’s presentation incredibly stressful for Ned. Mixed powers were even rarer than a child inheriting their mother’s powers, as Sansa had. 

The powers which Jon had inherited were certainly the best possible outcome with his heritage, if he had been a fire user, it would have been almost impossible to hide without the constant presence of another fire user or water user to put out his fires, especially during his younger years. It was a well-known fact that young Targaryen children had slept in the presence of another older member of the family in case they lost control of their fire during a nightmare. 

On the other hand, if he had been a powerful snow or ice elemental user then Cat would certainly have insisted that he either take away Jon’s powers, or send him to the Wall as soon as possible. Either option would have ended in him doing something which would have meant him betraying his sweet sister even more than he currently felt that he had done.

Jon disliked him a lot. Ned could tell that. It had started after Ned had stopped him from training with his powers, there was always the chance that he could unintentionally send out fire in a training session. Even though his elements were conflicting, and Jon would almost certainly never produce anything but slush, Ned could not take that risk.

And Jon obviously resented him for it. It probably had not helped when Ned had refused Jon’s request to go to the citadel and train to be a Maester, even though Ned had admitted that Jon was definitely smart enough to succeed in the order. Jon seemed to be too smart for his own good sometimes. Ned was terrified of the day when he would figure out the reason why his snow melted. 

Jon had turned out not to have much of his mother’s character whatsoever. People always assumed that Jon had inherited his sullen demeanour and bookish nature from Ned. Ned knew better. Jon was Rhaegar’s son through and through, his character almost a direct copy of what Ned had heard and seen of Rhaegar. He had recently cemented this belief after coming across Sansa teaching Jon the high harp, seemingly entranced by his playing. Jon was his father’s son in all ways but his powers, and for that at least, Ned was grateful.

Ned shouldn’t ever have had to act as his Father. Ned shouldn’t make decisions for his life. These were the thoughts which restrained him from organising a betrothal for Jon. He did not feel like it was his place. Lyanna and Rhaegar should have decided that. Not him. Mayhap he would even have married a younger sister, in the ways of House Targaryen, had Lyanna given birth in the Red Keep surrounded by midwifes and maesters.

It was so hard to look at him sometimes. The Silver Prince reborn with his wild little sister’s face. 

He only hoped Robert would not see the same.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arya Stark hated the position that she was currently in. Not only had she been forced into a dress by her darling Lady Mother. She did not even have anyone to vent to. Not after Jon had betrayed her. Everyone else always paid attention to the better of the Stark sisters. Not her. Never her. Never Arya Horseface. The Wild girl. Only ever sweet, perfect Sansa. Stupid Sansa with her perfect hair, her perfect features, her perfect courtesies and her flawless stitches. 

Everyone except Jon. Her entire life he had been the one person who paid attention to her. Not her stupid sister. Where Sansa had everyone else in their family, even Bran and babe Rickon, wrapped around her little finger. Jon was Arya’s. He always had been. But now Jon was with Sansa nearly constantly. They walked together. Ate together. He even sat in her chambers as she sewed. Arya hated it. 

So here she was. Standing neatly in line. Waiting for his most majestic grace the King. Getting a final lecture by Mother on politeness. In a dress. Next to Sansa. This was not a good day.

Horns blew and the gates opened. They were here. Arya began to slouch. Sansa pulled her up by her collar. The King and his entourage began to make their way through the gates. Gods be good. The King looked like a horse which had never moved an inch in its entire life. His girth was nearly twice the size as his horse’s (the poor creature seemed to be sinking under his weight) and he was sweating like a boar. Granted he was not quite the size of the Mermaid Lord, but King Robert Baratheon was still by far one of the biggest men she had ever seen. He definitely was not the same man who had slain the Mad Prince in single combat.

The Kingslayer and the Crown Prince rode slightly behind him. If not for his expression then the Prince could have been described as very pretty, what with his golden hair and grass green eyes. However, the Prince had a sneer on his face and was looking around Winterfell with an expression that screamed of his absolute disgust for her home. Arya hated him immediately.

The Kingslayer, in great contrast to the two other “men” riding just ahead and next to him, was exactly what a king should look like in Arya’s opinion. He had flowing golden locks, sharp green eyes, was obviously fit and held himself with an air of dignity and pride which was not so evident on the actual King. 

The King stepped onto a stool, and, with relative difficulty, dismounted his horse. The poor beast seemed to sag with relief as it was led away. The wheelhouse’s door was opened and the most beautiful woman that Arya had ever seen stepped out, followed by three children around her own age. The Queen was the exact opposite of her husband. Beautiful where he was unattractive. Slim where he was fat. Bitter and disgusted where he was jolly. Arya doubted she was as pretty on the inside as she was on the outside.

The youngest prince was a chubby little boy (his weight seemingly the only trait he had in common with his father) who appeared a tad too shy, clinging to his elder sister’s skirts. Princess Myrcella really was as Valyrian as people said she was. Just like Sansa she was very pretty and would probably end up as a beautiful Lady. Unlike Arya. Or the other girl. The other girl was probably Shireen Baratheon. The future Queen Consort. She was around Arya’s age, and was (unfortunately for her) the only girl that Arya had ever seen who was even uglier than herself. Her pox scarred face ruining any chance of beauty she may have possessed.

The King stormed forward toward them. Her entire family bowed and curtsied in the Fat King’s presence and Arya with them. The King appeared to motion at Father to rise, and, after he began to stand, almost in unison the rest of her family and the servants rose. The King then looked at Father and said.

“You’ve gotten fat”.

He was one to talk. 

He and Father stared at one another for a while before they both began to laugh and embraced one another as brothers. It was almost sweet. If it wasn’t sickening. Arya would bet a suit of armour that the Fat King reeked. He then proceeded to embrace mother with a friendly hug. Mother looked so uncomfortable. It almost made wearing the dress worth it to see her face.

The King said then to Father “Nine years. Why the hell haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

Father replied happily “Guarding the North for you. Your Grace, Winterfell is yours.”

The King moved along the receiving line past Mother, first to greet Robb, who appeared to be nursing another hangover if the paleness of his face and the bags beneath his eyes were to be believed.

“What have we here? You must be Robb. A man of my own ilk from the smell of you!” The King shook Robb’s hand as Mother looked down embarrassed. 

He moved onto Bran “Show us your muscles!” Bran flexed his non-existent biceps. The King chuckled “You’ll be a soldier!”

Then Sansa. Arya nearly sighed, she’ll be next.

To Sansa he simply said “Aye, you’re a pretty one. A southern house will take you in with pleasure.”

Sansa just nodded her head demurely. As a lady ought to.

He moved onto her. “Your name is?”

She responded with a reasonable amount of standoffishness “Arya.”

He returned to Father to insist to be shown to Aunt Lyanna’s tomb in the crypts.

The Queen begged him not to but what the King wants the King gets. And so, his wife was left standing there like a lemon, Prince Joffrey at her side. Interestingly, both of her other children were standing far away from her, close to the Kingslayer, seemingly completely uninvested in their Mother’s shame. Mayhap this was normal for the Royal Family.

Arya grit her teeth. She still had hours left in this horrid dress. At least there would be delicious food at the feast. 

But still. This was a not a good day.


	12. Plants II and Ice VIII-A most unfortunate engagement

For Lady Margaery Tyrell the journey North had consisted of an ever-increasing sense of annoyance at her more and more irritating Ladies-in-Waiting, and their seemingly ever louder twittering. At first all Margaery could think about was her impending marriage to Lord Stark’s eldest son Robb. She had put off leaving Highgarden by hours, claiming to be finishing her gown, as she could not very well do such intricate stitches in a moving wheelhouse. But eventually her Lord Father had grown impatient and demanded that they left, so as to have as much time with the Royal Family as possible. Hopefully, gaining their favour back. 

The journey North was a long and tedious one, especially with such a large party as the wedding of the most beautiful rose of Highgarden would have demanded, so it had been decided that she and Robb Stark would wed soon after the King left, not wanting to play up themselves to be more important than the Royal family.

She had thus been commanded to give her input on her wedding gown. Margaery had refused. Instead she had created almost the entire dress herself. It was a golden woollen gown, which covered her up demurely, as suited the frigid Northern lands she would be married in. And had intricately embroidered blue winter roses on it. Margaery was rather proud of the dress. No matter what it represented.

Margaery knew that she would likely not see Highgarden for many years, if ever again. She had walked the rose gardens for hours following this realisation, the flowers drooping behind her. Instead of the stunning beauty of the rose gardens and the hills and the fields surrounding Highgarden, for the rest of her life Margaery would be stuck in a desolate land with a likely unloving husband. The Starks were ice cold after all. Their hearts were likely the same.

With these thoughts constantly flowing through her head like petals in the breeze, for the first few days the twittering and gossip of her Ladies had been entertaining, and acted well as a distraction to her distress. At least until they began to incessantly gossip about the bloody Starks. The family that had ruined her dreams of Queen hood with the great aid of the Fat King. 

They chatted of how handsome and powerful Robb Stark was, how he could summon ginormous snow storms and easily control them. How lucky Margaery was to be marrying into such an ancient and noble house. A House which had ruled the North for over eight millennia. How much pressure she must feel to bear him sons. After all, only three sons of House Stark remained, and one was still a babe. 

Of course, that talk brought one of her lowest ranking ladies in waiting, Rhea Pommingham to speak of the only stain on Ned Stark’s honour, his handsome and intelligent bastard son. Rhea was a rather pretty girl of five and ten, with hazel eyes rimmed in a soft brown and striking red hair. As the fourth born daughter of a minor lord with three sons, Rhea had little hope of ever finding a noble husband, her dowry being so little. She would likely always be a part of Margaery’s retinue.

“What about Lord Stark’s bastard? Imagine how handsome he must be if his mother was so beautiful as to make Lord Stark forget his honour.” Rhea sighed dreamily.

Honestly. Margaery knew she was upset over the situation she was in in terms of her non-existent marriage prospects. But swooning over a bastard. How unladylike. And yet her Ladies had continued the conversation giggling wildly. 

The birth of the Bastard of Winterfell, as the boy was now known, had been a great scandal among those of her own prestige when he, as a babe, had been presented to the newly crowned King Robert Baratheon. Talk of him and his theorised mother still milled about here and there whenever the gossip of the Highborn of the Reach was running slow.

Some said it was the ethereally beautiful Ashara Dayne whom was the bastard’s mother, Lord Stark having been star struck by her charms. Others said that it was the most beautiful wench in the world. Others still (especially those who did not particularly like House Stark) that it was his own sister Lyanna, given that the bastard looked so much like a Stark. Margaery, Margaery did not care, one bit. The only thing she cared for now was some bloody quiet.

If Margaery heard one more trilling laugh, she swore to the Seven above she would jump in front of the horses pulling their wheelhouse. When Winterfell came into sight it was almost a relief. Of course, they had to wait until the King and Royal family were finished with the Starks before they could enter.

Her father laughed boisterously as he went to greet a grumpy and ill looking Robb Stark, his red hair dull and messy. His blue eyes seemed empty and as unpassionate as ice itself. His shoulders were slouched and his smart doublet had a red stain down the collar. All in all, he was certainly not an impressive sight to behold.

Standing next to him were two boys around his own age and a girl a few years younger. One had curly dark brown hair tied up into a braid which ran down his back, longer than her own hair, and almost black grey eyes. He carried a frown etched deeply onto his face and a handsome, almost regal nose. Margaery guessed that this one must be the Stark bastard. The other boy was slightly older and certainly more handsome than Robb Stark. He was dressed smartly in a leather doublet embroidered with a golden sea beast, he must be the Greyjoy heir who was a hostage of House Stark and by extension the Crown. The final of his companions, the girl with vibrant red hair, was standing next to the bastard with of her arms entwined with his. Those two were certainly close. Judging from her pretty fur lined blue cloak and embroidered grey dress, she was like as not a daughter of House Stark.

“Young Lord Stark! It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance! This is my dear sweet daughter, your betrothed, the Lady Margaery!” He said joyously to the Young Stark.

He hissed at Margaery “Come over here and greet your betrothed, girl!”

Margaery put on her sweetest face as she approached the man who would soon be her husband. As soon as she came near enough to him, she had to hold in a cough. He stank of days old ale and sick, no wonder the bastard frowned so. Her future husband was a complete drunkard.

“My Lord betrothed” she curtsied “It is my honour to be your future wife. I hereby swear, that henceforth, I shall be loyal and obedient to you. As any wife should be.” 

She would never obey this drunk bugger.

The bastard elbowed the drunkard. “Of course, my lady. I shall be honoured to escort you to the feast tonight.” The drunkard murmured. 

She smiled at him as pleasantly as she could. It would take all she had in her not to impale him with her thorns when the time came for their bedding, she could already tell. It was so terribly hard to believe that this was the Heir to House Stark. Gods be good the bastard acted more a lord than he, escorting his half-sister and elbowing his half-brother to greet his future wife.

Becoming Lady Robb Stark would be harder than she had ever thought.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robb Stark was drunk. Robb Stark was always drunk these days. It was the one thing that could make him forget his problems. Make him forget his sinful lusts. Make him forget his Father’s, Mother’s and House’s expectations that bared down on him so heavily. Make him forget his soon to be wife.

He had met her soon after the King. He had shamed his mother when greeting the King, he barely remembered. The King had called him out as a drunkard. 

The girl he was to marry was the only daughter of Lord Tyrell, Lord Paramount of the Reach. He only recalled that due to Jon’s tutoring sessions. What was her name? Margaret? Mana? Margaery? One of those. She had seemed sweet he supposed. Theon said that she was hot, thin and highly fuckable with constant bedroom eyes, that her hips were a good sign for all the babes he would be sure to beget from her.

Robb didn’t quite understand that. Her hair was a dull brown like her eyes and that dirty hot water Jon was obsessed with. He would much rather not marry her. He would much rather not marry any woman if he was perfectly honest with himself.

The noise of the great feast being held for the King surrounded him. Certainly not helping with the pounding in his head. Robb groaned. He was sat next to Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Luckily the little shit was ignoring him in favour of a wench. Really the boy was much too young for such things.

He must have gotten it from his father. The King Robb was named for sat drinking mug after mug of Arbor gold, eating more than Bran’s weight in gold, and all with a whore sat in his lap as his Queen was sat next to him a tight smile on her face. Robb would be happy when they were gone. Winterfell was too loud with the King’s party present.

Jon might not be though. He was dancing with a pretty Reach maiden with striking red hair. The sight made Robb’s heart hurt. Margaery Tyrell was dancing with her brother, Loras he believed. Loras was gorgeous. His curly brown hair, pretty golden eyes and fit body, while not as attractive as Jon he was still very handsome. Robb tried to stop those thoughts before he ran away with them.

Snow fell from his mouth as he sighed. Why. Why could he not be normal and love a woman, actually no even just finding a woman attractive would be enough for him. Why could he not look at a woman’s breasts and get as hot as he did seeing Jon’s abs. Why. It was not fair. He was the heir. He had to marry and father at least one child to carry on the name and legacy of House Stark. 

Robb often wished that he were Jon. Jon was free to do whatever he pleased while Robb was trapped on a path with no other roads than the one he was on now. Marrying who his Father chose for him. Siring a son or daughter. Becoming Lord Stark. Caring for and protecting the North. Dying and being buried in the crypts. He could not choose whether to marry or not. Hell, he could not even choose his own bride. He could not become a knight as Bran was sure to do. He could not go on the adventures that Rickon was sure to have.  
He had to stay here. In Winterfell. Forever and always. With his wife and their future child. 

Margaery Tyrell twirled on the dancefloor with a new partner. Her hair catching the air and spreading petals around her.

He couldn’t do it.

Robb Stark could not live up to his family’s expectations.

He could not marry her.

He just couldn’t.

What could he possibly do though? He couldn’t elope, he didn’t want a different wife after all. Maybe he could ride quickly to White Harbour and take a ship to Essos. 

-And betray the North and the people who raised you? - A voice whispered in his head.

No, he could never completely betray them.

-What about your Uncle? - The voice whispered again.

His Uncle.

Uncle Benjen was a ranger on the Wall. A Black Brother. Guarding the North and all the Realms of Men.

That was what he would do. Robb would join the Night’s Watch. 

Now usually Robb would have simply stolen away in the hour of the Wolf later that night if he had stuck to his idea by that point. But as stated before. Robb Stark was drunk. 

And so, in front of all the Lords and Ladies, Northern and Southron, Young and Old, Robb made his announcement as a supplication to the King.

“Your Grace.” he said as slur less as possible “With your permission I would most humbly ask to be allowed to go to the great Wall built by my ancestor Bran the Builder, to take the Black. Leaving another Brandon Stark as my replacement as heir.”

The Great Hall fell silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are appreciated. Hope you enjoyed. :)  
Also yeah. Surprise. Robb's taking the black. He's really not mentally ok rn.


	13. Ice IX-Well that was unexpected

The King’s arrival had been almost anticlimactic for Jon. The man was hefty and sweaty. He seemed to waddle wherever he went and was in all terms completely unimpressive. The thunderous boom of his powers was now a tale lost to the past. Nowadays the oncoming storm of the young Lord Baratheon had been turned into a slight breeze with a smattering of clouds. It was almost impossible for Jon to believe that this was the same man who had killed the Mad Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, whom was known to have been almost as skilled in the control and use of his powers as the great Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.

On the other had it was quite easy to believe that the most skilled elemental user and swordsman in the entirety of Westeros was Ser Jaime Lannister. The man had beautiful hair the colour of beaten gold, as curly as Jon’s own, accompanied by hypnotising cat green eyes which glowed like dragon fire. Jon was quite sure that the man whom was known all over the Seven Kingdoms, from Last Hearth to Salt Shore, was, in fact, the most handsome person Jon had ever seen. He looked like a King should.

Sadly, Jon had only caught a glimpse of the infamous knight as he rode into Winterfell, before he was pulled away by the barber to have his beard shaved off as Robb had had done this morrow (granted while unconscious). After his beard had been gotten rid of, he had intended to search out Ser Jaime once more before the feast to challenge him (after all no man of Winterfell could challenge Jon in a sword fight), however Robb had called him over to stand by his side as he greeted the Lady Margaery Tyrell.

That meeting had not gone as well as it could have done that was to be sure. Robb was still hungover from the previous eve’s drinking, or was in fact drunk once more, and certainly smelled the part of a drunkard. In spite of the barber’s greatest efforts the Heir to Winterfell looked incredibly dishevelled and unkempt. Jon even had to elbow him with quite a force to get him to greet and invite the Lady Margaery to accompany him to the feast. It had been embarrassing. Especially with how put together and pleasant the Lady had been.

Even more shameful for Jon on Robb’s behalf had been that Lady Stark herself had been watching the exchange from the walkway overlooking the yard, having been dismissed from The Queen’s presence on the grounds of a long and arduous journey. Lady Stark must have been very pleased by Jon’s actions as soon after the Tyrell-Stark near disaster of a meeting, she had sent Arya to give him a note written in her own hand informing him that he had her permission to sit among the lower nobility whom would be present at the feast.

Arya’s place in informing him had also been incredibly fortunate as he had been able to put into motion his plan to reconcile with her. Arya had always held strong to the Direwolf blood which ran through the veins of House Stark, both in her powers and in her nature. She was a wild she-wolf not meant for the confines of highborn culture, both Southron and Northern. 

She had recently finished her compulsory training on how to restrain her powers and to absorb the snow of other Houses, distantly related to House Stark, whom might someday seek to harm her. With her control over her powers now of a standard where she would not harm herself or others around her, Father had ended her lessons in her powers (as was the done thing with all girls). Arya had thrown a fit. But she could not be trained by anyone, with Robb refusing to disobey Lord Stark and Jon’s lack of prowess, and even Arya knew of the dangers of training alone.

Thus, his baby sister had been attempting to persuade Father to let her take up sword fighting or knife wielding lessons ever since. It was why Jon had decided to commission a thin sword for her to gift to her on her name day. Unfortunately, with their relationship ever decreasing in quality, Arya’s name day gift had turned into a reconciliation one.  
She had been so happy. Jon would never forget the smile on his little sister’s face as she opened her gift. Would never forget the hug she gave him afterwards. Would never forget the relief he had felt as he realised that his little sister had forgiven him for his perceived slight against her.

Arya had then run off to play with the pup Nymeria, who had apparently become a Dragon-Wolf named Vhagar as Arya played the Targaryen Queen Visenya. Jon had nearly chuckled at the site. A wolf playing at being a dragon. The only thing sillier would have been a dragon playing at being a wolf.

Jon had then retired to his room. While he had previously planned to spend the feast night in his day clothes, the letter he had received from Lady Stark changed everything. He might even have to wear the clothes that Lord Stark had placed in a chest under Jon’s bed. They were the finest clothes that Jon owned and every year on his name day Father gave him bigger ones to fit hm better, a gift always accompanied with the statement that they were “Just in case it became necessary”. 

Jon lifted the doublet out first, it was woven in fine black wool with darker thread patterns of wolves dancing, nay hunting embroidered across it. The hose had the same patterning only it had blood red rubies sewn onto it in lines, these same rubies had been reused on his “just in case” clothes ever since he could remember. Then there was the jerkin, it was almost the exact same colour as the rubies used on his hose and had golden snowflakes embroidered onto it in a scattered pattern.

Jon often thought that it was odd that he owned such a fine set of clothes where he had never seen such a thing in even Robb’s wardrobe. He tried not to thing on the matter too much.

Having put on his new outfit and groomed his hair sufficiently Jon made his way to the great hall where the feast was soon to begin. As he would be sitting with the lower nobility, he was one of the first to arrive. The Royal Family, Members of House Stark and other major nobles such as the members of the main branch family of House Tyrell would arrive last as was proper for such an occasion.

The members of the lower nobility were already mainly present in the great hall and were already mingling with each other. Jon felt his nerves heighten drastically as he looked around. He realised that he appeared to be better dressed than even some Southron nobles here.

It was then that a young man approached him. The man was only slightly older than Jon himself, around Theon’s age, and had very Valyrian features with light blonde hair and violet eyes.

“Good eve Sir! My name is Laenor Mallery. I am the eldest son of Lord Mallery of Maiden’s Rest. Might I enquire as to your name and position?”

Jon heart began to pound as he prepared himself to reply to the Lordling. He was a bastard. Who knew how the man would react? Likely badly. Jon gathered himself.

“Good eve Sir. I am the baseborn son of Lord Stark. Jon Snow.” He said smoothly.

Laenor’s eyes widened in surprise. He smiled. 

“Judging from your attire your Lord Father must favour you well! Come! You must meet my dear good sister the Lady Rhea Pommingham!” he exclaimed excitedly, tugging at Jon’s arm.

Jon was genuinely shocked. Not only was this Valyrian Lordling welcoming him, he was introducing him to his good sister.

Lady Rhea was indeed very pretty. Her hair nearly matched his rubies and her eyes were akin to the new crops that grew in summer. She had been very flustered upon his being introduced to her. It was quite charming.

He had continued to chat with her, Laenor and Laenor’s wife Lady Delena Mallery (born as Lady Delena Pommingham) for a while after their introduction. Before he knew it the Royal Family and the major members of nobility came striding through the doors (or in the King’s case waddling).

Father noticed Jon and stared, his face going as pale as snow. Robb was aware enough to wave at him as he escorted the Lady Margaery. Bran copied Robb, evidently Arya had told him that their argument had been resolved, he was escorting the Princess, who blushed and looked away sharply as his eyes met hers.

The feast, for the most part, was incredibly fun. He had eaten and drank with his new friend Laenor, whom he learnt was a member of a minor House in the Crownlands, and danced the rest of the night away with Rhea.

Indeed, everyone was getting along like a couple of Targaryens. Until it happened.

Until Robb announced his intention to take the black.

The silence which followed his announcement was deafening.

It was the calm before the Storm.

Then all of the Seven Hells broke loose.

Lady Stark began to wail. Lord Stark shouted at Robb. Lord Mace Tyrell went red with anger and began to make demands of Lord Stark. All the while the King simply stood there looking deep in thought. 

Jon needed a mug of tea.

Then the fat King rose his hand to the sky and lowered it to the table with a thunderous boom.

“SILENCE!!!” The King roared. Silence fell upon the great hall.

“Young Wolf. If it is what you truly desire, to take the Black and defend the realms of men” The King paused.

Robb replied “It is Your Grace”.

The King continued “Then I cannot stop you. I will allow this.”

The chaos resumed. Lord Tyrell seemed to be consumed with fury at his only daughter being denied a marriage to the Heir of a Great House.

“SILENCE!” The King boomed once more. “I understand your concerns Lord Tyrell. And thus, I offer your family four options for your daughter’s marriage. Option one. A marriage between your daughter and the young Lord Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands.” At this Theon started upright from where he had been sitting, a young lady on his lap. “Option two. A betrothal between her and my second son Prince Tommen. Option three. The younger brother of your daughter’s betrothed shall marry her after he comes of age. Option four. I shall release the Kingslayer from the Kingsguard to serve as the Heir to House Lannister and your daughter shall marry him.” 

Ser Jaime paled. He knew as much as anyone that there was only one truly good choice for Lord Tyrell to make.

Lord Tyrell thought for mere seconds before replying. “Option Four is the most agreeable to House Tyrell.”

The King replied. “Wonderful! Now that that’s sorted, what say we have a wedding! Kingslayer. Your cloak.”

The King held his hand out expectantly. Ser Jaime handed him his white cloak with a pained look upon his face.

“Please,” Ser Jaime beseeched the King, “let me remain with the Princess!”

The King smirked. “Well if you want to remain here that’s on you. I have decided that my daughter will marry your new heir Ned!”

Lord Stark grew even more pale than before as he stared at the Princess. He looked like the Stranger itself.

The feast ended on a low for Jon. 

The night however ended on a high as he brought the woman whom he would ask Father’s permission to marry in the morrow to bed with him.

It was all in all a very surprising day he thought as he drunk his mug of tea laid next to the naked body of his future wife.

Very surprising indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. Fresher's week is a bitch.  
Laenor's great. Absolute mad lad bro.  
Also surprise! Yes that all really just happened.
> 
> Do comment. I love hearing your thoughts! Even if I sometimes have to google translate them XD
> 
> Have a nice day/night and remember.
> 
> Tea is great.


	14. Interlude-The Hopeless Daughter

Lady Rhea Pommingham had never held much hope for her making a good marriage in her life. For the longest time she had expected that like her two younger sisters, Melara and Melessa, both three and ten, she would be given to the faith to become a Septa. Instead she had been accepted as one of lady Margaery’s Ladies-in-waiting, a fate better than she could have possibly have hoped for as a fourth born daughter. 

All three of her elder sisters had made decent marriages. Her eldest sister Rhaella had the Valyrian looks of their mother, born as a daughter of Lord Farring and Lady Rhaenyra of House Celtigar, and thus had been able to secure a marriage to the Lord Monford Velaryon, with whom she had two young sons, Monterys (aged six) and Maelys (aged three).

Her parent’s second daughter Sheana had silver hair and green eyes, she had managed a marriage to Ser Lucion Lannister, a scion of House Lannister. They had two daughters, Cersei (aged three) and Shiera (aged one).

Her third elder sister, Delena, also favoured their mother heavily and had recently married Laenor Mallery, the heir to a minor Crownlandian Lord. Their children would be very Valyrian in looks indeed.

She was so terribly jealous of them. It had always seemed to her that they had the option that she, as a likely eternal member of the Lady Margaery’s retinue, would never have. Happy marriages blessed with children. Ever since she was very young Rhea had known that she wanted to be a mother. Unfortunately, unlike her elder sisters Rhea was both a fourth born daughter and she favoured their father heavily with bright red hair and green eyes. She had never thought that any noble in his right mind would wish to take her as his bride.

And in that respect, she was right. For it was not a Lord whom she spent the feast dancing with. Whom she allowed to take her to bed. But a bastard. Her father would be shamed she knew. But Jon Snow was so kind and handsome with those deep indigo eyes. She could not help herself. 

Besides, he had promised to make her his bride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little snippet and backstory on Jon's new girl.


	15. Fire III-Oh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: There is like a slight sex paragraph in this chapter. Not very graphic though. Is a bit dubious consent though.

Jon woke up early the following morrow. Rhea was laying next to him fast asleep, all of her but her flaming hair covered by furs. To his shame Jon found himself pretending that the woman laying next to him was Sansa. A sense of all-consuming guilt followed that thought. Not only for his lusting after his sister like a Targaryen but for his disgracing of Rhea. She was a sweet dreamy young woman. She most certainly did not deserve him acting or even thinking like he had.

Jon rolled out of bed as quietly as he possibly could, so as not to disturb Rhea. His head was pounding as if Robb had dumped a pile of snow upon it. He quickly made his way to the kitchens to make his morrow mug of tea.

Jon then made his way to the courtyard, still sipping from the mug. The brisk chill of the early morrow breeze combined with his mug of tea was enough to wake him up entirely. The whole courtyard was devoid of life, as was usual for this early in the day. Not even the lowest servant was awake at this point.

Apparently, Jon was telling a lie as he heard a quiet drinking sound from a corner of the training yard. Jon turned his head and much to his surprise, sat there drinking his sorrows away was Ser Jaime Lannister. His golden locks were all messed up, his face pale with black circles under dull green eyes. Jon felt horrible for him.

Jon had never thought ill of Ser Jaime for killing Aerys Targaryen. The Mad King had killed both his grandfather and uncle in the most horrible of ways and it would not surprise him if he had done even more heinous things.

Jon thought for a moment before returning to the kitchens to make a second mug. As it brewed Jon thought of what he would say to the knight. How to approach a man who had just been stripped of his duty and given a wife he did not ask for.

Jon thought on this continuously as he walked towards the man upon leaving the kitchens, two mugs of tea in his hands. 

Ser Jaime was sat in a corner of the training yard, with a barrel to his right and a mess of sick to his left.

“Ser Jaime” Jon said as softly as he could so as not to surprise him. “You looked upset and I was simply wondering if you would like a mug of tea?”

Ser Jaime looked up bepuzzled and said in a confused tone of voice “Rhaegar?”

Jon stared at him in a combination of bemusement and horror. It appeared apparent to him that the man was completely and utterly drunk. To confuse Jon for the Mad Prince. Sheer lunacy.

Jon decided to go with it. Ser Jaime obviously was in need of a warm bed. Luckily, he and Rhea had slept together in Rhea’s own guest chamber not his, it had a small double bed in a room adjoining to the Lady Margaery’s. Since it had been assumed that Rhea would be the only of Lady Margaery’s handmaidens to remain in Winterfell after her now cancelled marriage to Robb, Rhea had received the adjoining room to the Heir of Winterfell’s Wife’s.

Thus, Jon decided to try and get Ser Jaime into his bed. Having no clue where Ser Jaime’s own chamber was.

“That’s right Ser Jaime. Tis I” Jon put on his most regal voice. “I think that you have had quite enough to drink, don’t you? Why don’t we get you to bed? Hm?”

Ser Jaime brought his hands up and waved them around a tad before they fell onto Jon’s face. He pulled Jon close to him and kissed his neck. Jon blushed and glanced around to check that nobody would see them in such a compromising position.

“Course. You can always take me to bed Rhaegarrrr” Ser Jaime said, drawing out the name Rhaegar sultrily.

Oh. Jon thought. No wonder Ser Jaime was so upset with his new wife.

Jon decided to go with it. Why not. He leant towards Ser Jaime’s ear and whispered. “Come on then little lion.”

Ser Jaime began to rise with little success. Jon placed Ser Jaime’s arm over his shoulder and moved forward with his own arm around Ser Jaime’s waist. They slowly made their way to Jon’s rooms, Ser Jaime purring in his ear the entire way. Jon did not know he could be so interested in a man as his own breathing began to get heavier and his heart beat harder.

Eventually they made it to Jon’s bedchamber. Jon helped Ser Jaime onto the bed before being dragged down with him. 

Ser Jaime met his lips eagerly widening his legs so that Jon could fit in-between them. Jon decided to go with it and responded in kind. They thrust against each other somewhat rapidly, each seeking release.

Ser Jaime came soon with a high-pitched whine with Jon following nearly immediately after him with a low grunt. Ser Jaime left consciousness soon after. His last words before losing himself to the sweet abyss of sleep, “Rhaegar. Love you. So sorry. Rhaegar. So sorry.”

A wave of guilt came over Jon. What had he just done?

He ran to the kitchens.

He really needed a mug of tea.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As midday came over Winterfell the daily hustle and bustle was in full swing preparing for a great hunt by the King and his Lords which would be followed by a second grand feast held in celebration of the King.

It was also at this point that Jaime arose from his slumber in an unfamiliar bed. His first thought upon realising that this was not the bedchamber that he had been allocated upon their arrival to Winterfell was a prayer that he had not fallen for Cersei’s charms once more.

Thankfully it seemed that he had not. These rooms were not grand enough to have been allocated to The Queen herself. Then the question remained. Who on earth had he slept with after the feast? He supposed that it could have been his new wife the Tyrell girl, but these chambers seemed rather unladylike, and at that regularly used and lived in. Besides Jaime could barely recall their rushed wedding in winter fell’ s tiny sept (at Lord Tyrell’s insistence they’d been married straight after the feast, for fear of another runaway groom), let alone sleeping with her.

A serving girl perhaps? That would certainly explain why his bed mate was no longer laid next to him. Jaime spotted a wardrobe on the right-hand side of the room and made his way, somewhat unsteadily, towards it. Upon opening the wardrobe, it became glaringly obvious that his mysterious bed mate was in fact a man of somewhat high standing in Winterfell.

That would definitely explain his lack of presence. Odd though. Jaime had not slept with another man in years. Not since his fling with Lancel at least. Whomever he had slept with must have been attractive.

Jaime looked down at himself. He seemed to have lost his armour at some point and his chemise was muddy with a slight bit of sick on it. Added to that his nether hose was stained with cum. That must have been fun. Shame he could not remember it. Surely his mystery bed mate would not mind if Jaime borrowed a chemise. Everything in the bloody wardrobe was black or grey. Fun guy. Jaime went for the less distinguishable, but certainly cleaner than his current attire, grey.

As he made his way out of the chamber into the hallway, he immediately noticed the Stark Direwolves and snowstorms littering the walls and beams. Combined with the age of the stones it was obvious to Jaime that he was standing in the centre of Winterfell. In the family’s rooms. Well that narrowed Jaime’s bed mate down a lot. Either Robb Stark or the Bastard of Winterfell. He peeked back into the chamber. Bastard of Winterfell it was then.

Jaime made his way out of the main rooms as fast as physically possible. Which was not that fast given the state he was in. The light burned his eyes as he took a walkway over to the guest house and melted into the hustle and bustle.

Navigating his way to the chambers he had been allocated was harder than Jaime had expected. Thankfully he got there eventually. Unfortunately, it would seem that he would not be alone in his chambers. As, sat there on the soft chair in the corner of the room, peacefully embroidering was his new wife, Lady Margaery Tyrell. No. Lady Margaery Lannister.

It was quite awkward

“My Lady”

“My Lord”

They each stood and sat in silence for a few moments before Lady Margaery spoke.

“I did not see you last night after we consummated our marriage. I do hope you enjoyed your ale.”

Ah. So, it seemed that she was under the impression that she had traded one drunkard of a husband for another. Looking at himself it appeared that she was not entirely mistaken in her belief. Also, apparently, he had indeed consummated the marriage. That was worth a note.

“Indeed, my Lady. It was only to celebrate my new marriage of course; strong ale is not my usual drink of preference.”

“Of course not.” she said sweetly as she gave him a thorny smile, “Are you here to dress or would you like to take me once more as is your right?”

Jaime coughed. “No, my lady. I am quite alright. I was simply going to break my fast and decided to make myself more presentable.”

“Very well.” His Lady wife returned to her embroidery.

Jaime hurriedly dressed himself.

After having gotten dressed Jaime made his way to the great hall to break his fast. He knew that there was a hunt about to leave, but honestly, he couldn’t give a damn. The great hall was mostly empty, with the majority of the nobles either on the hunt or waiting for the great feast to eat. The only ones who were there was a familiar looking girl with red hair eating some lemon cakes if he was correct, and with her a dark-haired boy taking regular sips from a mug and engaging her in conversation. As well as some fat nobles sitting far away from the couple. 

Jaime sat himself in the middle of the two groups of people. And asked a serving girl who was standing near to him for some tea if possible (for some reason he really fancied it. Usually he avoided the stuff, it reminded him too much of Rhaegar who had had an obsession with the Essosi beverage) or if not a glass of milk as well as some porridge and honey.

As he was waiting for his food and drink, Jaime looked around the ancient hall, marvelling at its old spender, it was not intricately gilded like the Red Keep but it was beautiful in its own northern way. 

It was during this admiring that Jaime met the dark-haired boy’s eyes. He was shocked. Those eyes. He would recognise them anywhere, even now, so many years after he had last seen them. Those were Rhaegar’s eyes. Jaime scanned the boys face. He had Rhaegar’s nose and lips too. His face shape was that of House Stark however, as was the colour of his hair. Its curliness was that of House Targaryen. Upon taking his eyes off of the boy Jaime realised why the girl he was sat with had appeared so familiar. That was Ned Stark’s eldest daughter. Which, in all likelihood would make the boy Ned Stark’s bastard. The one Jaime had likely slept with the previous night.

So, the big question was. Why in the name of the Seven did Eddard Stark’s bastard look like Rhaegar Targaryen.

Unless.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Jaime’s heart jumped.

Here in front of him was Rhaegar’s last remaining child. His son with Lady Lyanna Stark.

Jaime could have kissed the boy.

Wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bi bi bi bi  
Surprise update!!  
Free days are great and I wasn't drunk while writing this one. Yaaay.
> 
> Do comment, leave kudos and remember
> 
> Tea is great.


	16. Ice X and Fire IV

As the hounds barked and the men howled their fury chasing after the prey, a magnificent young buck with an almost golden hide, Ned was consumed with other thoughts. His mount was panting with exertion but Ned could not think of anything other than the events of the night prior.

His carefully planned alliance with House Tyrell ruined by a son he had honestly never expected to disobey him and betray their family. He did not know where he had gone wrong with his heir. An heir who had decided to abandon his family and his Kingdom was no heir at all, even if Ned thought that he could convince Robb to return to his position in House Stark he wouldn’t. The Lords would never accept Robb as Lord Stark now.

The alliance with House Tyrell was key to the future of House Stark should the worst ever come to pass and Jon’s true heritage was to be discovered. In a civil war one wants to ensure that the person with the most troops at their disposal was one’s allies. And that House was House Tyrell. While House Tyrell would certainly support House Targaryen should worst come to worst, they would likely attempt to marry Lady Margaery to Jon if she had remained unwed. Even though it was well known what came of plants who were mated by dragons. Lady Alysanne Ashford had burned alive giving birth to a bastard sired by Aegon IV, the babe had died shortly after, one of his elements consuming the other and killing him.

Ned couldn’t in good faith have allowed that to happen to the girl, plants are damaged by the snow but they live. Very few could survive the fire of a Targaryen, certainly not plants they burned, nor the snow they melted. It was how his sister had died. Jon’s flames had consumed her entirely, it was a wonder that he, nay that they had survived until Jon’s birth. Ned often theorised that it was Lyanna’s absorption of Jon’s flames which had allowed him to live through those first few years when a babe’s powers were contained within their body, settling in to place.

At least that would not be a problem now that Margaery was married to the rock wielding Kingslayer. She would never burn alive in her birthing bed.

Ned would just have to hope that House Tyrell would stay on side. Mayhap that proposed engagement of Sansa to Lord Willas Tyrell would be a good solution. Certainly, their elements were incredibly compatible, the only issue was the age difference between the two.

Yes, that would do. Bran would need to be trained on his new duties. Both as future Lord Stark and the husband of a Princess, the betrothal contract for that had already been signed, no backing out for either part now, no matter what. Of course, he had always received the same lessons as Robb, one never knew when another civil war would break out after all. Ned himself was a spare. A spare who was woefully unprepared when he was forced to take up the mantle as Lord Stark.

As such Ned had always intended for all of his sons as well as Jon to be trained as possible future heads of a Great House, as possible Wardens of the North, and, in Jon’s case, as a possible (highly improbable mind you) future King of the Seven Kingdoms. Just in case.

A thunderous cry distracted Ned from his thoughts. Oh, it appeared that someone had shot the buck down. The King rose victorious from his kill. Evidently Bolton had lodged an arrow in the bucks hide and the Great Stag had finished him off with a strike from his crackling warhammer (a fact which seemed a tad excessive to some, not to Ned though, this was Robert after all). With Robert so bloodied it almost seemed as if they were back in the war again. Although had that been the case Ned no longer knew which side he would stand. His brother in all but blood, or his sweet sister and her husband and son.

No matter. Ned thought to himself that he ought to congratulate Robert on the kill.

“That was a strong hit your grace, impressive.”

“Your grace, your grace, your grace.” Robert moaned annoyed “Honestly Ned. Our Houses will soon be joined in marriage, your son, my daughter, not only that I intend for you to be my hand! Can we honestly not just be Robert and Ned?”

Ned started. Robert wanted Ned as his hand. Did he suspect Jon’s parentage and want him close as leverage? No, if that were the case then Jon would be dead in the courtyard by now. Robert simply wanted Ned around. The real question was, could he honestly survive in King’s Landing?

“Your Gr- “Robert looked at Ned sharply, Ned quickly corrected himself, “Robert. I’m honoured truly. But do you really think that I am the right man for the job?” 

After all, Ned had a contingency plan which ended with an entirely different House sitting on the Iron Throne.

“Of course! You’re my brother! I can’t trust any of those fucking snakes down in court. But you. You I can trust Ned. It was always us two. Side by side. I want that again brother.” Robert exclaimed.

It was at this point that Ned realised that he did not have a choice. He had to go to King’s Landing with Robert. He had to go straight into the depths of hell.

“Of course, Robert. It would be my honour and my privilege to serve you.” Ned replied with little hesitation.

“Brilliant! We’ll have to take this sharpshooter with us” Robert said clapping the new Lord Bolton on the shoulders “I’ve got my eye on him.”

Ned did too. Though likely for very different reasons. He still didn’t know if he could trust the new Lord Bolton. The boy had been present at his Father’s execution and had barely batted an eyelash. It was eerie.

“Well then boys! Who’s up for a feast! This magnificent beast will be our centrepiece!”

A cheer arose among the hunting party, their carts laden with their bounty, pheasants, quails, rabbits and even a couple of does.

Off back to Winterfell they went.

Ned would never in his wildest nightmares have suspected the scene that they would return to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jon flushed as Ser Jaime’s dragon fire green eyes met his own. There was recognition there. Shit. Jaime remembered what they had done. What Jon had done to him. Masquerading as a dragon prince. He had used Ser Jaime selfishly.

Jon began to panic. What did he do. He knew that he should look away but how could he. Ser Jaime’s eyes were burning. His breathe began to come quicker to him as he fell deeper and deeper into a pit of despair. What if he told? What if he accused Jon of sodomising him? Oh gods.

“-on. Jon. Jon.” Sansa calling his name broke him from the spell.

“Yes.” Jon didn’t squeak. Jon definitely didn’t squeak.

“What’s the matter Jon? Honestly, you’re no King, the Kingslayer poses no threat to you whatsoever. Especially here in Winterfell. Its our home, he could hardly get away with murder.”

“Yes. Yes of course you’re right Sansa. I just. I just think that I ought to speak to him is all. Try and convince him to spar with me before the hunting party comes back” Jon looked down and stared deeply into his tea, before chugging it down in one.

“Very well then.” Sansa took another bite from her lemon cake. “Have fun.” She mumbled.

Jon nodded to her and braced himself for a long and difficult conversation as he stood up and made his way to Ser Jaime.  
He sat down.

“I think we need to talk”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jon, if that was even his name, had approaching him by himself. How on earth was Jaime going to go about this he didn’t know. It was obvious that the boy didn’t know his heritage. Jaime could have let him go on being the Stark bastard Jon Snow, mayhap he would even end up as his regular bed mate if he did. But Jaime knew that Rhaegar wouldn’t have wanted that. He would have wanted his son to know his heritage. That he was a son of two great, powerful, ancient and royal houses. 

There wasn’t really an option. Jaime had to tell him. And he had to tell him now.

“Yes. I think we do. Come along” Jaime said as he slowly arose from his seat on the long bench.

“Where can we talk where no one will hear us?” Jaime questioned quietly, looking straight ahead as he and Rhaegar’s son walked side by side.

“The broken tower. No one ever goes there. Its abandoned” Rhaegar’s son replied.

“Good. Lead on.”

They walked quickly but not too quickly, so as not to appear suspicious. Arriving at the stairs they climbed to almost the very top as quickly as possible.  
“This is about last night isn’t it? If so, I want you to know that I am truly sorry. I should never have done such a despicable thing.” Rhaegar’s son spluttered out.

“No no. Well not completely. I’m here to talk to you about something I realised just this morrow. When I broke my fast.”

Jon looked at him questioningly.

Jaime thought for a while. How would he put this?

“What I say here today. You must never tell anyone. Not unless it becomes a viable option to do so. Do you understand?” Jaime said in the most serious voice he could muster.

Rhaegar’s son was obviously confused but replied affirmatively.

“Today I’m going to tell you the identity, as I know to be true, of your mother” at this Rhaegar’s son gasped “…and that of your Father.”

“What are you talking about? My sire is Lord Stark. This is known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The boy went to storm off in a fiery rage.

Jaime grabbed his wrist “No. He isn’t. Your father is Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone.”

“Yes? Well if that’s the case how come I look like a Stark?!” the boy shouted.

“Because your mother is Lyanna Stark”

Silence reigned supreme

“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” Jaime nodded “That’s why my powers act so wrong isn’t it? I’m a child of ice and fire. Two conflicting elements. That’s why I can’t use them right isn’t it?”

Jaime replied “Almost certainly.”

Rhaegar’s son fell to he floor, seemingly in shock. As Jaime made his way over to the boy, he heard something. A gasp in the window. His head snapped around. There clinging to the top of the window ledge was a Stark boy, the second one if Jaime recalled correctly.

“Jon? You’re not our brother? You’re a Targaryen. You killed our Aunt Lyanna. You threaten my princess. I’m telling the king!” The boy said, quicker than Jaime had ever though possible. The boy was panicking. Rhaegar’s son looked up with a heartbroken, betrayed look in his eyes, on his face.

The boy was going to tell Robert about Rhaegar’s son. Robert would kill him. Rhaegar’s last child. Jaime couldn’t fail Rhaegar. Not again. No. He wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t let any harm come to him. Jaime made himself as hard as the rock he controlled, as furious as his flames. 

“What is your name boy?”

“Bran Stark.”

“How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“Well Bran Stark. Just know that this won’t hurt.”

Jaime pushed the boy from the window as Jon cried out trying to stop it.

“The things I do for love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeeeeyyy
> 
> D'you miss me?
> 
> Sorry. I underestimated university. XD.  
Forgive me?
> 
> So yup. Cry for Bran.  
Sorry, I had to.  
Plot points and that.  
Also I just really love that line.
> 
> Also who else completely forgot that Domeric Bolton existed?  
Just me?
> 
> Comment, Kudos
> 
> And remember 
> 
> Tea is great. Especially with lemon drizzle.
> 
> PS. It's 6 AM so I'm not spell checking this


	17. Ice XI-To Be King

The Maester said that Bran may or may not live. Jon somehow couldn’t find it in himself to care either way. Bran had betrayed him after all, not as much as Lord Stark but still. Jon, if that was even his name, had been Bran’s brother for nearly a decade now. He held the boy even before Robb did, he had helped him with his maths on multiple occasions, he even helped Bran with his sigils. He had acted as his brother for such a long time but with one revelation, that he was their Aunt Lyanna’s son and not Lord Stark’s Bran had decided to reveal him to a King who would undoubtedly kill him for his blood.

Jon was numb. He was in Sansa’s rooms with Ser Jaime and the Princess Myrcella comforting a distraught Sansa whom had been recently chased away from Bran’s sickbed along with his betrothed the princess by the Maester and Lady Stark. He was holding Sansa against his shoulder as the Princess held her had tenderly. Sansa’s cries were the only reason he could bring himself to hold any worry whatsoever for Bran at this moment. The traitor.

Sansa’s need of him was rather convenient really. Without it he was sure that he might have attacked Lord Stark for his lies. Following Ser Jaime’s revelation of Jon’s parentage and his following attempted murder of Bran Jon had been consumed with rage. Things had begun to burn as he lost his Stark iciness. Luckily Ser Jaime had stopped the spread of the flames. And wasn’t that interesting.

Jon’s eyes fell on the Princess, with her silver-blonde hair and violet eyes. Completely Targaryen. It was very, very, odd. Jon couldn’t help but think that mayhap Lord Lannister’s children weren’t as Lannister as he would like to let on, after all, the Mad Kings exploits with married women were well known.

He looked back at Ser Jaime. Mayhap there were even more people with dragon’s blood left in the world, living under false names. Ser Jaime nodded at him seemingly answering his question.

He didn’t know what to do. Should he head North with Robb to the wall to meet Maester Aemon, a Targaryen whom had been left completely alone, or ought he head to Essos and seek out his Aunt and Uncle there. Mayhap he should instead remain in the North and marry Rhea as he had originally planned. He could still be surrounded by his father’s family with the Princess and Ser Jaime, whom he greatly suspected to be his cousin and Uncle respectively.

Jon could mount an offensive he supposed. Make a claim for the Iron throne as the Prince of Dragonstone’s last remaining child. House Stark would be honour-bound to support him for his familial ties, and may even bring with them the Riverlands and the Vale. 

Ser Jaime would stand by him, especially if he married Princess Myrcella (whom Jon had surmised was his favourite of the royal children). Tywin would prevent him from gaining the support of the Westerlands though. He would have to be dealt with. But House Tyrell and the Reach would stand for him, ever the Targaryen loyalists. Mayhap Laenor could gather some support among the Crownlandian Lords, they had never truly bowed to Baratheon rule.

If all of those Kingdoms stood for him then he would have control over four and a half of the seven kingdoms and over a third of the population of Westeros. Even if only the North and the Reach stood for him, he would still have an army of over 113,000. To the Crowns 110,000. They would be evenly matched if Dorne remained neutral, as they were like to do.

He could win.

It was possible.

Rhea would have to be sorted though. If he did decide to press his claim a good marriage would be necessary for alliances, make the right one and mayhap he could even bring Dorne back in to the fold. It was a pity, he really did like her, and she would have made a good and dutiful wife from what he had seen of her. 

It was a difficult situation with her. He could simply ignore her but if he did so Jon was sure that the guilt would kill him. Mayhap instead he would tell her that her Lord Father had refused his suit, but that would be implausible, after all she was a fourth born daughter, who’s honour was now ruined, and would have little to no marriage prospects. No. Jon had to wither be rid of her completely, something he knew immediately that he would never be able to do. Or, he had to find her another husband.

How the fuck was he going to do that?

Greyjoy wouldn’t take her and Robb was off to the wall, and they were quite literally the only men his age that Jon knew. He’d have to supplicate his Lord Uncle to find Rhea a decent husband. It should be easy to make Lord Stark feel guilty with his new found knowledge.

It was decided then.

Jon would pressure Lord Stark into obtaining a marriage for Rhea.

Then Jon would get Ser Jaime to help him separate and train his powers.

Alliances would be made, marriages held, wars waged.

And then.

Then he would be King. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ned sat with his head between his hands praying at his second son’s bedside. The commotion as they had returned from the hunt had been shocking. Maids had been washing away bloodstains at the foot of the Broken Tower. One had approached him, curtsied and then told him. His son had fallen while he was climbing. He was lying abed being tended to by the Maester with his mother, eldest sister and betrothed at his side. 

Oh, how he had run. He ran until he was a few feet away from the door, he hesitated before entering the room where his son lay unresponsive and possibly dying. When he got to the room, both Sansa and the Princess Myrcella were nowhere to be found, he assumed that the Maester had sent them away. He went to sit by his son, his heir. The boy looked even paler than Lyanna had. He enveloped his distraught wife in his arms and they sat.

Here they sat still. 

There was a knock at the door.

Robert entered.

“Oh Ned, this is a pile of shit isn’t it?” 

“Aye” Pile of shit was an understatement. Ned's new heir was lying unconscious on a bed possibly never to awaken.

“This unfortunate accident won’t be changing your position as my hand will it?”

Ned recognised immediately that that wasn’t a question. “Of course not. I only hope that the betrothment between our Houses hasn’t been broken?” Two could play at that.

“Course not. The girl can always marry your little one if the gods do not look favourably on your heir. Hells she can even marry your bastard! House Stark and House Baratheon will be united Ned. Even if it’s the last thing I do. It’s what my sweet Lyanna would have wanted after all.”

Ned sincerely doubted that. Ned almost chuckled at the thought of a marriage between Myrcella and Jon. Imagine that. A marriage between a Targaryen looking Baratheon Princess and a Stark looking Targaryen Heir to the Throne. Wouldn’t that just be a sight. Truly the gods would be stating their intentions in such an event, especially if the union was blessed with many children.

“That’s god. Although I sincerely hope that Jon will never have to take up the mantle.” Ned said with an almost frightening seriousness. Robert would never have to know that Ned wasn’t referring to the title of Lord Stark, Warden of the North. To be perfectly honest Ned was rather unsure about Robert. He really didn’t appear to be the best of Kings, leagues better than the mad king of course. But still. Hopefully his kingly side would show itself when they arrived in the Red Keep.

Ned really didn’t want to have to put his backup plan into play.

Another knock came at the door.

“Enter”

Jon walked through the door. His eyes seemingly simultaneously as cold as ice and raging with fire.

“Your Grace” Jon slightly inclined his head in acknowledgement of the King. It was too slight. As a bastard Jon ought to have been bowing. Ice fire eyes met Ned’s. Fuck. The man standing before him wasn’t Jon Snow. It was Aemon Targaryen first of his name.

“Lord Stark. Hopefully Bran is still with us. Though I know this moment to be inopportune I was simply hoping that I could talk with you for a moment.”

Ned had a feeling that this conversation would take longer than a moment.

“Very well. Robert if you would excuse me.”

“Of course, of course” Robert nodded drunkenly.

As they exited the room Ned inquired as to where they should talk.

“The crypts”

Oh dear. He definitely knew.

The walk was one of absolute silence.

When they finally entered the crypts, Jon continued to walk until they were stood before Lynna’s likeness. The silence continued for what seemed to be days. Before Jon began their discourse.

“Who’s my mother Lord Stark” Jon said coldly ice trickling from his left-hand fingertips. And wasn’t that shocking. Apparently, Jon was no longer limited to simply slush.

“I would tell you but I think you already know. Don’t you Aemon?” Saying Jon’s true name, the name Lyanna had given him on her deathbed was like a breath of fresh air.

“That’s my name then?”

“Aye”

“Unfortunate. I had hoped for a kinglier one. Aemon doesn’t really fit with my plans. From now on I will be known as Jaehaerys III Targaryen. Westeros is, after all, in great need of a good King.”

“And how do you plan to do that hmm?”

“Quite simply, with your backing. You can’t go back now Lord Stark.”

It was Ned’s own fault he supposed. He had raised Aemon as a prospective King. He really should have seen this coming.

“And what else Aemon?”

“Jaehaerys”

“Jaehaerys then. The North cannot win against the crown on its own.”

“I expect Lady Catelyn’s family to support us. And House Tyrell. Not only them, with Laenor’s aide I endeavour to slit the Crownlands into a faction that will support me. And mayhap I can arrange a marriage to Princess Arianne Martell, Dorne is owed a Queen after all.”

“You’ve planned this thoroughly”

“And if I have? By the way before my marriage plans to come to fruition I wish to find a decent husband for a noble born daughter whom I ruined last night.”

“You what?!”

“Lady Rhea Pommingham. I want her set up.”

“And who will I convince to marry a lower born Southron noblewoman who’s already been ruined for marriage by my own bastard?!”

“Don’t convince anyone then. Order them. There must be someone.”

“Very well.” He could order very few people to marry, at least not in good conscience. There was one though. Lord Bolton was still attempting to convince Ned that he was not his Father. Ned had been lenient on House Bolton. A lower Southron Lady for the next Lady Bolton would certainly punish them further.

“Swear yourself and your forces to me Lord Stark. For my use whenever I decide that we are ready.”

Really there wasn’t any other choice.

“I hereby swear myself and my Bannermen to Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign.”

“Long may I reign.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boo.  
How's life.  
Long live Jaehaerys III. Am I right?  
Hopefully you're a fan.  
Yeah I wasn't kidding when I said I was probably gonna put Rhea through a lot of shit.  
Kudos, Comment  
And remember,  
Tea is great
> 
> God Save The Queen


	18. Storm III and Earth I-The Mad Prince

Lady Shireen Baratheon was a very happy doe. Not only had she been free of her mother for what was now an entire 2 months, although throughout that time she had had to spend an abysmal amount of time with cousin Joffrey. But upon her arrival at Winterfell she had discovered that the babe had been born. It was a boy and Mother, in her last moments on Planetos, had called him Orys, after their forbearer. 

In her last moments. Last moments! Mother was dead! Freedom sure was wonderful, well at least for the next three years or so. Until she had her first moon-blood and was forced into marrying Joffrey. 

Shireen dreaded the day of her moon blood. Dreaded her marriage to Joffrey. Cat killing, brother bullying, sadistic Joffrey. Simply thinking of her cousin and future husband made Shireen shiver. And to think he would be King.

Shireen almost wished that her Lord Father was greedier and less dutiful. So that he might unseat the King and replace him. But he would not. Could not.

Shireen tried to distract herself by thinking of happier things. Of her mother’s death and her new baby brother.

She smiled at the thought of him.

The babe hadn’t even died. At least not yet. And he was already a moon old! Evidently, he was a Baratheon boy through and through. Black of hair, blue of eye, with a storm summoning scream.

Lady Shireen’s brother had just killed their mother and Shireen didn’t mind a bit.

Nothing had been able to bring her down in the days since she had heard the news. 

Not even Joffrey or the Queen.

Oh, the Queen. It was hard to believe that that bloody woman was a lion and not some sort of serpent with how she acted. Sometimes Shireen thought that she was even worse than Joffrey with her silver tongue covering a stone heart and fiery rage. The woman’s only redeeming characteristic was her command over Joffrey dearest.

She may have had only a little, but since she had caught him ordering the Hound to smack her across the scarred half of her face. Well. One could say that Shireen had become leagues safer. The cruelty of husbands was the one thing that they could agree upon, Shireen supposed. Mayhap it was the most uniting thing of all for Queens. Baratheon, Lannister or Targaryen. All had suffered by their King or future King. 

But Shireen would never be like her. It was an open secret that the beautiful Queen Cersei Baratheon, with her golden hair and wildfire eyes had a heart colder and crueller than any in the North. That if she discovered the existence of any of her husband’s bastards, she had them killed. Be they babe or nearly grown. Boy or girl. None were safe. 

Shireen would not tolerate any of Joff’s inevitable bastards in her keep of course. But she would not have them killed. To kill an innocent child. It was horrible. Much worse than having to see them each day.

The Starks were terribly odd in the way that they treated their bastards Shireen thought. Or at least the current Stark household was. Lord Stark’s bastard son was housed in Winterfell and educated just the same as any of Lord Stark’s trueborn sons. Mayhap it was due to the fact that Lord Stark had obviously taken the boys powers from him, negating the threat he posed to the trueborn children of House Stark.

The Snow boy had been the first on the scene when Lord Stark’ second son fell from that tower, Shireen recalled. That had been a sad occurrence. For a boy the same age as herself to have fallen from such a height, and just after the happy news of his betrothal to cousin Myrcella. 

Joffrey had found it funny at first. Then he was a mix of confusion and outrage when the Queen told him that the Maester was caring for the injured boy. He had stated that “The fool would be better off dead if you ask me”. In front of the entire great hall. Shireen had been sat to the other side of him. It had been humiliating. The Crown Prince advocating for the heir to a Great Houses death. Shireen knew that it would not be long before word spread and the boy that she would marry would come to be known as The Mad Prince. 

Hopefully, if word of his cruelty and treasonous words became widespread then the King may remove Joffrey from the line of succession. Shireen wouldn’t very much mind marrying the little Prince Tommen. He was, after all, so much sweeter and good than Joffrey.

There was no doubt in Shireen’s mind. Joffrey would be a tyrant.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joffrey Baratheon had never fit in with his Father’s family. Just the same as his brother and sister he did not have the traditional Baratheon looks, nor the Baratheon Storm. However, unlike Mercy or Tommie Joffrey also had never fit in with his Mother’s family either. 

Uncle Jaime avoided him like the greyscale outside of the occasional guard duty. Grandfather always held a frown and a face of complete disapproval whenever he visited and none of his cousins would even look at him. Not even his betrothed met his eyes.

Other than Mother, Joffrey Baratheon lived in a castle of isolation. It was his own fault Joffrey supposed. He had never quite worked in the same way as others. While Tommie and Mercy had always waited patiently for things Joffrey had needed them as soon as possible. He wanted to see the kittens. He wouldn’t wait. Besides Mercy had been so excited for them. And she was so pretty when she smiled.

Unlike his future wife. His ugly cousin, whom had been afflicted with greyscale at a young age. Shireen. He had never wanted to marry his cousin, not for the closeness of their blood. But because since she was born Joffrey had decided that Mercy would be his bride. Mercy with her beautiful silver hair and Amethyst eyes. Mercy with her kindness and patience. Mercy would temper him. But Mercy’s heart was Tommie’s. She loved Tommie, not Joffrey, and Joffrey often wanted to see Tommie dead for it.

Joffrey vividly remembered the day that Shireen had been presented to court age two. He had been five. Father had put his hand on Joffrey’s should and said that this was his future wife. He had smiled down at Joffrey. Joffrey had glared at him. As soon as they had both been taken to the royal nursery by their nursemaids Joffrey had let his rage overcome him and he had grabbed a hold of his betrothed’s hair and pulled on it until she screamed. Why her. Why not his Mercy.

Joffrey knew with a heavy heart that he may very well have pulled harder and harder if not for the sudden intervention of Mercy’s wails. He couldn’t upset his Mercy. Not ever. So Joffrey had stopped.

He had looked at his betrothed’s disfigured face, the side without the rock had been puffed up red and weeping. But she had the same hair and eyes as father. He was angry that she would be his wife, yes. But she was still his cousin.

Joffrey had looked then. But he hadn’t seen.

If not for her appearance and element Shireen would never have even come close to Joffrey. She wasn’t worthy of a future King.

If Joffrey could even be considered to be one. You see Joffrey Baratheon was not a fool. Joffrey admitted, internally at least, that he had a problem with his temper and patience. A characteristic that resulted in his outbursts of unchecked cruelty (especially towards his ugly betrothed. She was wrong). But with his intellect? No. On that front Joffrey had always succeeded.

It was due to his lack of foolishness that Joffrey had long ago realised that he, along with Mercy and Tommie, were not the children of Robert Baratheon. As of yet, Joffrey did not know the identity of their Blood Father (though he had his suspicions), but it had been obvious that none of them were Father’s children. Neither he nor Tommie had the Baratheon powers, and none of them had any physical identifiers of House Baratheon. If not for what Joffrey knew of his “half-siblings” then mayhap this could be explained away. But it could not. Mother liked to have all of the bodies of Robert’s bastard children brought before her and himself. To show him what they would have done to him if she had let them live. To show him how devoted she was to him and his glorious reign.

Every last one of them had taken after Robert completely.

None were blonde or brown of hair. All were black of hair and blue of eye. 

Not like them.

Thus. Joffrey had long ago realised exactly how dangerous of a position he and his siblings were in. One wrong move, one realisation, and they would all find themselves with their heads on pikes.

Mayhap not Mercy thanks the gods. With her Targaryen heritage so evident and no Targaryen’s or their descendants known to be living in King’s Landing other that the Baratheon brother’s themselves, Mercy at least was safe.

But Mercy would only be truly safe if she did not support him and Tommie. So, Joffrey couldn’t let Tommie come anywhere near to her if he could help it. Unfortunately, that was harder than it may at first seem.

But Joffrey had to try. Mayhap he and Tommie couldn’t be saved. But at least there was hope for Mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. I know.  
Hi.  
Still alive. Barely.  
University unfortunately keeps me way too tired and busy.  
So here's an unfortunately short chapter.  
I have an assessment due Wednesday next week but maybe I'll be able to upload on the 9th?  
Idk.
> 
> Also, blatant self-promotion.  
I've written a little soulmate drabble if you fell like checking it out.  
Again. sorry for the wait.  
Hopefully it was somewhat worth it.


	19. Fire V-Here there be Dragons

Dany was at her wits end with this pregnancy. The sickness, the heaviness and the tiredness had all done their toll on her. Let alone the lack of trust she had in her handmaids and Husband. Only weeks earlier one of her dearest and most trusted had attempted to steal her eggs. 

Dany couldn’t handle the stress of her situation for much longer, she knew. Oftentimes she wished that she could simply fly away. Away from her brother-husband, away from her traitorous handmaids, away from the pressure to bear a son.

But Daenerys could not do such a thing. For a Princess must always put her duty before herself.

And so, Dany continued to suffer as she held onto her favourite egg for dear life. 

She was so alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been two moons since they had returned home and Myrcella had been abandoned by her Father-Uncle. For the entirety of their trip back home, Papa had only had eyes for Ned Stark’s bastard. Myrcella hated the man. Sure, he had a pretty face but other than that there was really nothing special about him.

Why did Papa like him so much more than her? Papa had been Mrycella’s ever since she could remember. He was always with her, and to a lesser extent Tommie. He had taught her everything she knew. And now he had left her to follow Snow around like a puppy. Myrcella almost lost control over her flames as her temper flared up.

Even after they had returned home Papa had let other Kings guard’s watch her while he spent time with Snow. Why?!

Just as Myrcella was falling even deeper into her anguish there was a knock on the door.

“Myrcella?”

-Papa!-

“Yes, Uncle Jaime. Do come in” Myrcella smoothed off her dress and twiddled her thumbs.

Papa walked in and shut the door behind him fully.

“Mercy. Sweetheart. I’m so sorry that I have been unable to visit you.”

Papa enveloped her in a hug. 

Myrcella breathed in deeply as she treasured this moment. Gods she had missed her Papa.

“Please don’t leave me again Papa. I missed you so.” Myrcella said softly.

“Oh Darling. I’m so, so sorry. Would you forgive me if I told you that I come bearing gifts?”

Myrcella looked up surprised.

“I suppose that it depends what these gifts are?”

Papa grinned as he opened the bag which he had brought into the room with him.

He first brought out an archery book. Myrcella was almost disappointed before she saw what the true, secret gift was.

For it was at that moment that Papa brought out an egg. The egg seemed almost to be glowing as it sung to her. It was beautifully coloured. Emerald green with flecks of gold. 

“Oh Papa” she said breathlessly.

"It’s so beautiful".

"I love her".

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jae had been in King’s Landing for nigh five moons now and outside of the gardens and the god’s wood it was still as disgusting as it was when they had first arrived.  
His first thoughts upon seeing from afar the mass that made up the city and the Keep it encircled had been those of wonder and joy. The castle, his castle, looked magnificent as it stood high above the lower quarters of the city. Jae could just imagine how it would have looked with dragons and their Targaryen riders dancing above it, their fires burning all around them.

Unfortunately, that beautiful idea grew more and more out of sight as they neared the city gates. Jaime had warned him of the stench, but Jae hadn’t appreciated how foul the offending odour was until they came within breathing distance of the gates.

The smell only increased in its pungency as they grew closer to the city proper and finally entered with great ceremony through the gates. The smells of shit, piss, rot, death and unwashed people filled the air as the smallfolk called after the Usurper and the Lords and Ladies of their party for food and money. 

It was horrible to see what the Usurper had done to his people. They lay about in the squalor of the city, with some appearing to be too sick or feeble to even look up at them. They should never have had to live like this. Jae had sworn then, that upon his ascension to the throne, all of the men, women and children of his domain would know at the very least a full belly and semi-clean clothes.

Even after so long in the capital Jae couldn’t stand the stench and poverty. During the tourney that the Usurper had somehow found the money to fund, Jae had participated and won the melee held for the average soldier. He had, of course, used all of his relatively small winnings to fund a gruel serving scheme to feed the poor of his city.

Jae almost missed the journey, as long and tedious as it was. Even though he had had to spend a relatively large amount of time with the so-called Crown Prince, at least the smell wasn’t as potent. The worst point in the journey had been when he had had to send Ghost away, the pain he had felt then had been almost physical.

However, with an numerous amount of help from Jaime he had managed to separate his powers. Evidently, since he had always been taught to simply channel all of his power at the same time his ice and fire had been conflicting and obliterating one another’s power.

It had at first been incredibly difficult to separate his powers. But with work, and a lot of training by Jaime, who for some reason appeared to be an expert on the separation of one’s powers. Jae had been able to finally have substantial use of his powers. The first time he managed to truly use his powers, he had only been able to have a miniscule flame in one hand and snowstorm in the other. 

But now. Now Jae had powers truly befitting a King. Of course, had been difficult to find a place to practice with his elements, but now he had his practice room. The journey there was an interesting one, consisting of a labyrinth of tunnels which lead deeper and deeper into the heart of the Keep. The rooms had initially been blocked up, but Jaime had removed the rocks for him. 

They were glorious. Upon lighting up the torches one could see the chambers, every surface in each of the rooms was engraved or painted with dragons. It was obvious that these rooms had been built as rooms of sanctuary and safety for some member of House Targaryen. 

Some member of House Targaryen whom had left the rooms in a hurry, whom had almost certainly lived during or before the Dance. There were still dresses hanging in the wardrobe and the bed in one of the chambers lay unmade. It was as if the person whom had inhabited the chambers had left only the day before. And yet the stale air and dragon eggs gave away the fact that they could not have.

Yes indeed. Dragon eggs. Over twenty of them were placed in a small chamber which lay behind a bookcase. They were all so incredibly beautiful. Their colours ranged from amethyst to sun-coloured, sea-blue to Targaryen-red, pure-black to crystal-white. Indeed, the colour range of the eggs seemed to cover the entire spectrum. Yes, all of the eggs were gorgeous.  
However, one in particular had appeared to be calling to him. A fire coloured egg with a black stripe running down the middle of it. 

That egg, both fortunately and unfortunately, had not remained an egg for long. Jae had felt the need to keep his egg near his person at all times, even when he was training.  
It was during one of these sessions, while sparing with Jaime, that he had accidentally been cut by one of Jaime’s attacks. Jae’s blood had pooled upon the floor, his flames had appeared to have been going manic, and Ser Jaime had been incredibly panicked. 

The egg hatched in that moment, surrounded by Targaryen Fire and Blood. And thus, the first hatchling dragon in over 150 years. Jae was truly the Gods’ Chosen. For Jae had a rapidly growing dragon, nestled in the heart of the Red Keep.

His little Lyrax.


	20. Fire VI

Queen’s Chambers, Manse of Magister Illyrio Mopatis, Pentos

Dany was in agony. Their babe had made them terribly sick. Over the last few moons it had seemed to leech all of her life from them, giving them a sickly pallor (Daenerys disagreed on this point, Viserys had once said that her fairness in combination with the pregnancy gave her an aethereal beauty). The sickness had never ended, in fact over time it had worsened to the point that they could no longer leave bed (Daenerys insisted that it was only proper that the pregnant Queen should have to do nothing and be served on hand and foot). 

Now, after nine moons of incubation the babe was arriving. They were so scared, Gods above it hurt. There was too much blood. She was too young. When they had not thought that they could hear them Daenerys’ handmaids, whom were aiding in delivering the babe, had spoken their thoughts. They feared that they were on their deathbed.

Dany screamed.

The room lit up in flames.

Her handmaids wailed in agony as they attempted to escape, their bodies aflame.

Blood flowed from their body like a river.

Their babes were born.

One human from their body. 

Two dragons from their fire and blood.

It was the proudest moment of their life. For the first time they felt like they were Blood of the Dragon.

Their joy and pride were overtaken by sheer terror as she noticed one thing about the babe.

Dany had a healthy babe and two dragons. The larger one was pitch black and had demonic red eyes, while the littler one was snow white with golden eyes. Her sweet babe looked up at her with the same pale lilac eyes as her Father, wisps of silver-blond atop her head.

Daenerys had a daughter. 

They had failed.

No.

No one was here. They could claim the babe had been born dead Daenerys thought. It would be so easy. A quick smothering. Painless and easy. Dany argued that while of course they could not have a daughter her death was not necessary. As Daenerys had said, there was no one else present. They could claim Rhaella to be Aegon. Nobody would ever have to know. Daenerys snorted as she told her that she was being a stupid sheep. They were dragons. Dragons were ruthless.

Dany watched on in horror as her own hands reached towards her little Rhaella. She shrieked. 

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!”

Rhaella began to cry from pale lilac eyes as her mother set herself aflame. The white dragon curled about the small babe protectively. Attempting to shield the babe from their murderous mother. The White Dragon snarled as Mother began to come closer, her bad intentions clear.

She had only been alive for a matter of minutes but The White Dragon knew that this little two-leg needed to be protected. That she would rather die than allow the little two-leg to come to harm. The White Dragon looked over to her hatch-mate. The Black Dragon was lying next to his egg, seemingly confused. The White Dragon was confused as to why The Black Dragon was so confused and unamicable to the idea of protecting the two-leg hatchling, whom was obviously their hatch-mate. They three of them, The White Dragon instinctually knew, while not clutch-mates (born from the same clutch) were hatched by the same dragon-two-leg and thus need to remain together. Needed to protect one another.

Daenerys tried in vain to stop the flame from consuming her, attempting to wrestle control of HER fire from Dany.

In this room of fire and blood Queen Daenerys Targaryen collapsed. 

The Black Dragon fainted with her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rhaenyra Targaryen’s Chambers, Unknown Building, Red Keep, King’s Landing 

Jae smiled softly as he awoke to a small dragon the size of a hound curled up on his chest. He chuckled. Lyrax surely was the best thing to happen to him since Ghost. Gods Jae missed Ghost. Though he supposed that one could almost see his -dare he even think it- replacement by Lyrax as symbolic of Jae’s embracing of his Targaryen heritage.

Over the past weeks Jae had developed the habit of staying in his training chambers, whichever Princess had occupied these rooms surely had meticulous taste. Not to mention, the bed was leagues comfier than the servant’s room in the Hand’s Tower Jae had been occupying beforehand. Luckily, Jae had been waking up at dawn ever since he could remember so it was often incredibly easy for him to get some morning training in before heading up to the Hand’s chambers to break his fast with Sansa, Arya and Lord Stark.

However, Jae was feeling particularly lazy today. Yesterday had been an incredibly busy day, in his own opinion. News had come that Lady Bitch had taken Tyrion Lannister prisoner, accusing him of trying to kill Bran. Jae’s heart was weighed down by this thought, for his anger at Bran’s betrayal had long since been worn away, faced with the grief of Sansa and Arya. While he knew for certain that neither he nor Jaime had ordered Bran’s death while he lay in his long sleep, the fat of the matter remained that Jaime had pushed Bran from that tower. All in order to protect him. Lyrax whined and looked up concerned at him.

Jae smiled soothingly at his hatchling. He wondered. As he had done a lot over these past months, whether Lyrax would still have been his dragon if he had grown up here, in the Red Keep. With his Father as King instead of his insane Grandfather, and his Mother as one of two Queens, for Rhaegar had taken his mother as a second-wife, not as a replacement for his first. Jae could almost see himself running about the castle with his elder brother Aegon. Exploring all of the hidden places in the keep, as Jae had long ago done with Robb in Winterfell. Mayhap they would have come upon these chambers together. Jae would have gotten Lyrax and Aegon would have possibly taken that Sun-coloured egg. It would have been fitting for both a future King and a Son of Dorne.

Jae sighed at he got up. He kissed Lyrax on the forehead and ordered him to stay in place, promising to bring him back some tasty meat from the Kitchens. Jae had long ago discovered that feeding a growing hatchling was no easy task.

And so, his long trek back up to the Tower of the Hand. As he made his way there, Jae thought of his family. Both Targaryen and Stark. Thankfully Arya was still speaking to him, and even Sansa on occasion. Sansa. Sansa was happier than Jae had ever seen her before. She and Princess Myrcella had grown inexplicably close and were almost always together. They’d formed quite the little family, her, Myrcella, Jaime, Jae and often Tommen. Arya was usually too caught up with her sword instructor to pay much attention to them.

Before he knew it, Jon had arrived at the secret door which led to a room in the Tower of The Hand, very convenient for him. As he entered the room, he saw that he was the last to arrive (evidently, he had overslept) Sansa smiled prettily up at him and motioned to the seat between her and Arya. Jae’s eyes softened. A mug of tea was quickly presented to him. Jae immediately took a swig. Yes, King’s Landing was suiting him well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Princess Myrcella’s Chambers, Maegor’s Holdfast, Red Keep, King’s Landing

Myrcella was beyond panicked at this point. She had long since thought herself able to control her fire. Evidently that was not the case. For much earlier that morning, one of her maidservants had come into her room an hour earlier than she was expected. The girl was new, so this really ought to have been an easy scolding and offering of forgiveness. However, Myrcella had been warming her egg at the time and had panicked. Before she knew it she had set both her bed and the maid on fire in her panic. Then Papa had entered with a flaming sword, stabbing her still burning maidservant. Oh and then her egg had begun to crack.

Myrcella laughed hysterically as she looked at the baby dragon in her arms. Seven Hells. Papa had gotten rid of the evidence of her fire. The ashes of her maid had been swept away along with all of the other cinders that were here bed-sheets. Couldn’t get rid of Ruaragon, the name that Myrcella had decided on for her dragon. It meant to hide in High Valyrian. Something which would most certainly be necessary.

“Mercy” 

She looked up from Ruaragon as Papa spoke to her.

“You must know. We can no longer risk staying in King’s Landing”

Myrcella tightened her grip on Ruaragon. She had feared him saying that since she was seven.

“Yes. I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S CHRIIIIISSSSTMMAASS.
> 
> No I won't be doing that thing where I update my fic every day of advent. Don't even ask.  
I have literally four things (doesn't sound that bad. It is) due before the twentieth. Plz kill me.
> 
> Sorry for the late update. Hope you like all the drama XD. And dragons. All of the freaking dragons bois.
> 
> Your comments and kudos give me self worth. Please leave them.  
Oh and have a cup of tea


	21. Ice XII

A blizzard had raged all night at Castle Black. The winds wailing and banging against the shutters. Robb had found sleep easy to find however. Being at the wall had given him peace. All of his time at Winterfell now seemed to have been a nightmare of stress pressure and constant failure of himself. Now. Now Robb was free. Free from his family’s expectations, free from marriage, free from his constant failure in all aspects but fighting. Robb had almost immediately been drafted into the rangers, his powers evident and his lack of intellectual ability seen and judged by the Maester. The Maester was an interesting man Robb thought. Though Robb knew little about him other than the facts that his given name was Aemon and he was older than any could truly tell. If not for King Robert’s cull of all Targaryens Robb would have been tempted to believe that the man was one. Then again, the Night’s Watch was not the domain of politics so mayhap he was one. Jon would have been excited to meet him; he had had an odd fascination with House Targaryen for a long time after all. Robb had, like with many things of Jon’s, never understood the interest. Even on an intellectual level, what could one possibly learn from an extinguished family?

Robb stretched himself out as he awoke and pet Grey wind’s head. Yes. Life at the wall was truly good. Satin lay next to him, still sleeping, covered head to toe in hickies. Robb smiled fondly and played with his friend’s? Lover’s? hair. The wall had not simply given him freedom but also love. Satin made Robb feel things he had never imagined that he would be able to feel. At least not for anyone but Jon.

Robb got dressed in his black attire and made his way down to the food hall. Looking at his gruel almost made him regret joining the Watch. Well, at least until he remembered all the freedom he had now, his new friends, and Satin. No, Robb was happy. And excited. Today was the day that they left for his first ranging. It had been intended that they left a few days prior but then the blizzard had come and the Lord Commander had decided to wait a bit. Of course, blizzards were far from abnormal this far north but from what Robb could surmise both his Uncle Benjen (the Night’s Watch’s First Maester) and the Old Maester Aemon had warned the Lord Commander against leaving. Robb thought that their worry may have had something to do with the risen dead. Indeed, it appeared that the tales from his bedtime were true, at least to some extent. Robb had even killed one of them himself. Unlike all the other Crows, the wights did not scare Robb. In fact, the icy blue of their eyes even seemed to call to him, welcome him. Robb had burned it with a torch of course. He wouldn’t be tempted to touch it nor speak with it. Well, he would be tempted, but he wouldn’t give in to that temptation at least. He would not simply ignore it but actively act against it. He would kill as many of them as he could on the ranging.

Satin tapped Robb on the shoulder, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“You alright there, milord?” “Aye. Just thinking of what I have to look forward to on this ranging”

Satin sighed “I know that you’re looking forward to the ranging milord but I really must insist you be careful. Though you’re powerful the things out there. Wildlings and otherwise. They’re dangerous Robb”

Robb’s eyes softened “Ye need not fret Satin. I know what’s out there. If they see fit to attack us, they’ll meet my snow”

“That might work on the Wildling’s milord but the wight’s are ice itself, aren’t they?”

“Aye. That’s why I’m bringing my sword with me. So, I can stick them wight the pointy end if things get rough”

“Very well.”

Robb took Satin’s hand in his and whispered to him. “I’ll come back. Don’t worry.”

Satin gave him a tight smile in reply.

A banging on the high table took them out of their conversation. The Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont stood and spoke.

“Today is the day. As you all know over the past moons the rate of wilding attacks has increased and with it the number who have crossed into our lands. There have even been rumours of an army amassing in the Land’s beyond the wall. Obviously, we, who guard the realms of men, cannot allow this!”

A cheer went up from some of the more noble in the room.

“So, pack your sacks and prepare to head out and skewer these fucking wildings!”

The cheering grew louder as the less noble joined in at the prospect of killing.

Robb’s heart beat rapidly as his excitement and nervousness grew. He wanted to be the first. He wanted to taste his first true blood. The wight didn’t really count in his opinion.

It seemed to be no time at all before they were looking out across freshly laid snow, crisp and pure. It was time. Robb had been surrounded by ice and snow his entire life, but now, now he was to finally experience the freezing temperatures of the far north. To be completely surrounded by snow, white in every direction. It was almost a dream.

As Robb Stark placed his foot on the crisp snow, he felt his nerves disappear alongside his excitement. As the party made their way further and further north Robb felt more and more like he belonged. The far North giving a sense of peace and belonging.

He was Home.

_ Yes. You are. _

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ever since he had woken up from his long sleep Bran had been feeling as though something was not quite right with the world. He couldn’t put his finger on quite what the wrongness was, only that it was there. As well as this he had felt as if his entire personality had shifted. He felt calmer, less possessive and more adult. Strange as it was to say that. Of course, with all that had happened he didn’t have time to truly look into his feeling further. Not only was he now the Heir of House Stark with a Princess as his future bride, something which alone brought all sorts of expectations, pressure and new duties. He was also having to deal with Northern Lords who felt as if they’d been betrayed by House Stark, both for the betrothals of the eldest two trueborn children of the Stark family to Southron Houses and the abdication of his elder brother Robb. Bran also had to come to terms with his newfound disability, being unable to walk gave him little options but to stay abed or remain seated in his solar or the main hall listening to petitions. While both of these had been hard enough on their own, they were no longer the only major issues that Bran had to contend with.

This was due to the fact that his Lady Mother appeared to have lost her faculties completely. Over the past few weeks she had been going around telling all who would listen that Jon had pushed Bran from the Broken Tower and pressured Robb into joining the Night’s Watch in an effort to become Lord Stark. Her paranoia had not been helped by Rickon’s recent sickness. Soon after Bran had awoken Rickon had grown incredibly sick and had been bedbound for weeks. There had been a number of days in which the Maester had feared his brother to be on his deathbed. Fortunately, Rickon had recovered looking little worse for wear but Mother had insisted that it was part of the conspiracy to place Jon on the Dire wolf’s seat. It was nonsense of course, Jon loved them all and would never want them dead. He didn’t even have a reason!

Bran supposed that Mother simply didn’t want to admit that Robb had failed them. That he had failed at being the heir that she had always expected him to be, an heir akin to the one she once was. Mother was getting so bad that Bran had been forced to separate her from Rickon. The things that she whispered in his ear were becoming toxic and unacceptable. The Maester had hesitantly suggested the day prior that she be sent to the Silent Sisters. Bran had refused of course. It was bad enough that he had been forced to lock her in her chambers. He would never send his Mother to a convent for widows.

Bran sighed. Mayhap it would have been for the better if there had been a conspiracy to unseat them and place Jon on the Dire wolf’s seat. Though Bran would unashamedly admit that he was most certainly more well suited for the position of heir than Robb had been he would also admit that Jon was almost perfect for the position, his only weakness being his powers. None of his thoughts on that matter were important however. One way or another the position of heir had fallen on him. And Bran would do it to the best of his abilities.

It was then that Rickon burst into his chamber with Shaggydog. Rickon had had his fifth name day a week prior and had only seemed more boisterous since then.

“BRAN! BRAN! Look what’s come from Dorne!”

At that Bran raised an eyebrow. What could possibly have come from Dorne and why on earth did his brother have the letter. Speaking of letters. Where was it?

“What came then little brother? Pass us the letter.”

Rickon giggled wildly “Don’t be silly Bran. It’s not a letter. It’s a present!”

Bran was even more surprised.

“What sort of present would that be then?”

“BRING IT IN HODOR!”

At that Hodor wheeled in a strange contraption. It appeared to be part chair and part carriage.

“What is that?”

“It’s a present! It makes you move see!”

At that Rickon hopped in the contraption and ordered Hodor to move him. As he was pushed about the room Bran was overcome with joy. Soon he would be able to get around again. Mayhap even by himself! Bran didn’t want to think of the conditions and favours he would owe Dorne and the Martell’s just this moment. Only the gift they had given them. As he was helped into the contraption by Hodor and Summer Bran’s worries melted away and were replaced with a child’s joy much more befitting his age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone!  
It might be nearly midnight but this still counts! Besides, I'm sure that at least some of you are Americans so it's still the afternoon XD  
Comment and Kudos if you have the time and all of you enjoy the holidays.  
I wish peace and joy on you all this Christmas. (Even if you don't celebrate it)
> 
> All my best wishes  
BritPrus8  
:)


	22. Plant III and Earth II-Cubs

Lady Margaery Lannister had known since the aftermath of the consummation of their marriage that her relationship with her husband would be a one of distance and cold courtesies. He had left their marriage bed immediately after having finished in her after all. But she had not expected this level of distance. Since their arrival in King’s Landing five moons prior her Lord Husband, though relieved from his duties to the crown, had visited her bed only three times. Each of those visits had followed the arrival of her moonblood and had been likely on the request of his father Lord Tywin. She had expected distance yes, but not to be completely ignored. Her Lord Husbands would even go so far as to prefer the company of the Stark bastard than her. Even now, when her moonblood was over two weeks late he had not come to ask after her wellbeing. It was infuriating. If she was a lesser lady Margaery might even have been tempted to attempt to seduce another in order to find herself a companion. Only a few moons prior she would have been sorely tempted to seduce Crown Prince Joffrey. Now, that was completely out of the question. Not simply due to the fact that she was a married Lady who was likely with child. But also due to the things that she, having been much closer to the inner royal circle following her marriage to Ser Jaime, had seen the so-called Prince do. The boy was as mad as any Targaryen. And not just the controllable and acceptable madness of Prince Rhaegal or Baelor the Blessed, but the callous and insane cruelty of Aerys or Maegor. No, that was something that Margaery would never even consider anymore. The boy was mad. He was cruel and narcissistic. 

Margaery trailed a hand over her stomach and wondered whether a new little rose was truly growing in her or if she was simply hoping for too much. Being married had made Margaery understand truly how alone she was. Her handmaids had been taken from her after her marriage to the Young Lion and replaced with Lannister cousins who cared little for any talk other than that regarding dresses and occasionally scandals which were occurring among the court. They would not talk of the handsome Lordlings while around her nor would they partake in veiled political conversation. Seven hells, even the discourse regarding scandals was limited to the lower members of court. Yes, they told her how beautiful, wonderful and gracious she was, but Margaery had long since grown sick of such inane conversations. And of golden hair. Indeed, Margaery prayed with all her heart that any babe that she would have with the Young Lion would have her brown locks, and emerald eyes of course (she shouldn’t like to risk any untoward allegations).  
All this talk of sickness made Margaery nauseous. Her eyes widened as she realised that this feeling was not simply mild nausea. Margaery quickly reached under her bed for her bedpan and hurled. While previously she would have been disgusted by her vomit this time Margaery simply grinned and took it for proof that she was indeed with child. Mayhap her life would not be so lonely soon.

The vomit was still disgusting though. Margaery had her Lannister guards call for her least dislikeable Lannister handmaid. Oh, and the Lannister puppet of a Grand Maester. The handmaid in question was gold of hair and green of eye, unsurprisingly. Margaery believed that her name began with an L. Mayhap it was Laena or Leila? The girls name didn’t matter anyway. She was simply another Minor Branch Lannister subservient to the Main Line in all ways.

Margaery sat herself back upon her bed and stroked her flat stomach again to comfort herself.

No. Soon enough she would still be surrounded by lions but she would have herself a little rose to call her own. 

And the Lions would do well to remember that even potted roses still have thorns.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Leonella Lannister was never meant for anything of any particular note. She was a daughter of one of the poorest recognised members of a Cadet Branch of House Lannister with two brothers after all. Even though she was the eldest and only daughter of her family her dowry was so little that only a minor merchant’s second son had ever offered for her hand. Lea was pretty enough, but she wasn’t pretty enough to warrant a marriage to a poor Lannister. It had been following the merchant son’s proposal that her parents had given her into the service of the Main Branch, aged ten and nine, hoping both that she might find herself a noble born husband outside of their small holdfast and that she would bring her family some more money. 

Her life at the Rock had initially been just as hard, if not harder, as it had been at home. She still remembered vividly her arrival at the Rock. She had arrived on the back of a traveller’s cart surrounded by other travellers and her bags, which had contained the vast majority of her clothing. The Rock had been such a magnificent sight, even as she looked straight up to the sky, she could barely make out its peak. It was so much lager than anything she had ever seen before. Her rooms had been much less impressive however, almost half the size of her bedchamber at home with little decoration and only a single bad and a small chest of drawers.

As a new servant, though noble, Lea had been immediately put to work as a maidservant. She did whatever those higher above her in the pecking order wanted of her. Mainly Lea had found herself in the kitchens washing dishes or in the bakehouse. She had regularly received odd looks from other Lannisters that she had seen, mostly they were higher ranking than her or visiting from Lannisport. she had initially though nothing of it, simply believing that they thought her to be unusual, being placed in such a low-ranking position. It had made her sad when she had come to the thought that they were likely assuming her to be bastard. 

However, it was one day when she was making her way to wash up the dishes from cooking the Lord’s morning meal that she realised exactly why the Lannisters looked at her so strangely. The handmaid who usually served the Lord his morning meal had not turned up and thus the cook took one look at her and her dress, which was the only one not covered in flour from the baking or other foodstuffs and sent her on her way with a tray. That had been stressful. Thankfully Lea had made it to the Lord’s solar (where he usually broke his fast while working on the days parchment) in good time. Lord Twin made for not such an imposing figure while he was biting his tongue in thought and resting his head on a fist. Lea had had to try terribly hard not to giggle.

Her happiness had been short lived however as the Lord has raised his eyes from his work hearing her enter. He had immediately turned as white as her mother’s prized pearls. She remembered to this day the soft whisper of “Joanna?”. That had been a conversation. After that encounter she was raised to the personal maid of the Lord Lannister, delivering all of his meals and washing the majority of his attire. It was a better position than she could have initially have hoped for and the pay was very good indeed. He had had her attend to him during the trip down to King’s Landing a few moons ago. Lea should never have gone looking for more. But how could she not? She was a Lannister after all. And Lannisters are known all over Westeros for their greedy nature. A moon after their arrival in King’s Landing while delivering his food Lea had sat herself in her Lord’s lap and had kissed him thoroughly. Things had quickly escalated and she had soon found herself bent over his table with her maidenhead being taken from behind. Afterwards, for a few seconds she had had the hope that she might find herself in the position of, if not his wife, the Lord of Casterly Rock’s mistress. It was not to be however. For the very same night she had found herself removed from her position as Lord Tywin’s personal maidservant and moved into her current position as one of Lady Margaery Lannister’s handmaids. Lea feared that she would not hold that position for much longer. Lord Tywin was still virile it seemed. She had been ill for moons now and her belly was growing rapidly now. Soon enough someone would notice and she would be dismissed from her position and sent home to her family in disgrace. Lea could never have brought herself to drink moontea. Now it was too late. She would be sent home and then her family would banish her and she’d be forced to work herself to death in the Red-Light district to raise her little lion. She just knew it.

A knock came at her door, scaring her half to death.

“Lea?”  
The voice called. Thankfully it was only the nice guard Harwyn. Harwyn was lovely. If she wasn’t ruined there was a chance that they could have been very happy together. He was a handsome man, lowborn yes, but Lea found that she was no longer so picky about husbands.

“Lea, the Lady Lannister has called for you. It’s urgent.”

Lea chuckled as she covered herself up with a second dress, hiding the bump in her belly well.

“Everything regarding the Lady Lannister is urgent Harry. You know that.” She said as she opened the door.

“Indeed. You look beautiful as always Lea.”

Lea blushed. “Oh hush you. I must be off then.”

Harwyn replied “Yes, I suppose so. If you would allow me to escort you?” he offered her his hand.

Lea thought for only a moment before replying “I should like that very much”

At least for now she could enjoy this moment. The time for worrying would be soon, but not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayo.  
I'm back again. Much more frequent uploads over the holidays. The lack of work does wonders for my creativity.  
Comment and Kudos!  
I love reading all of your thoughts!


	23. Earth III and Fire VII

Mercy and Uncle Jaime had been missing for over a fortnight now. Along with the Stark bastard. Joffrey had spent the last fifteen days stalking about the Red Keep with a look of terrifying rage across his face. A number of servants had found themselves injured by unintentionally getting in the way of a Crown Prince besides himself in worry and anger. Of course, he would never even think that their Uncle would harm Mercy. But that bastard. Who knows what he would be capable of? As a bastard himself Joffrey felt perfectly validated in saying that some bastards were indeed what the Faith accused them of being. Joffrey was, a t the very least. And who could say what the character of the Stark bastard was. Mayhap he was like his father, loyal and fearless. But he might also be like his Uncle, whom Joffrey had heard of on a number of occasions, Brandon Stark, who had been wild and furious in his rage. What if he had harmed Joff’s Mercy and then killed Uncle Jaime and taken her to cover his actions up? Though lacking in elemental powers Joff knew that Snow was perfectly able to take on Uncle Jaime with his sword. Mayhap Lord Stark knew of Snow’s actions and was wary of Joff discovering them.

That would explain why the Hand of the King had been staring at him so often. The other two reasons which could possibly be behind Lord Stark’s actions were ones that Joffrey could not bring himself to consider, so threatening were they. The first alternate reason was less worrying than the second, that being that Stark had determined Joff too unstable to hold the throne. That would only result in his own imprisonment or ‘disappearance’. The second idea was much worse. The thought that Lord Stark may have discovered his true parentage terrified Joffrey. Mercy would be endangered by her very presence.nIf that was the case then Joffrey would be glad that Mercy was likely far away from the Red Keep now. That hopefully the Snow would be able to keep her safe. 

Either way, right now Joffrey was incapable of doing anything. He could only hope that Mercy was safe. That she was alive. That Snow or Uncle Jaime was protecting her. Joff himself was absolutely helpless. Gods be damned. He was the Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, legitimate or nay. He was now four and ten years of age and yet he could neither protect nor save his darling sister. He was to be married to a girl he did not wish for and held no attraction to within what was likely to be the next two years, as his marriage to his cousin was arranged for the third moon after her first flowering. Though Joffrey had long since accepted that marrying his sweet sister would be a political disaster, he had at least hoped that he could marry an actually attractive girl. Hells, even the Stark girl would do. Not the redhead mind you. She was much too boring, what with her embroidery and ladylike manners. The other girl however, the younger one. She was fun. Joff had caught her practicing her sword fighting on multiple occasions. On the most recent one he had demanded that she spar with him. The way which she responded to that had made Joffrey’s blood burn. They had sparred for hours before her Septa found them. How that woman had shrieked. It was entertaining. All her anger at the younger Stark girl, Arya. Her screams of being a shame to her family, that her fighting with the Crown Prince was an insult to his ‘Father’. Joff snorted remembering. The feisty girl had simply glared up at her. Joff had then took it upon himself to defend her telling her Septa that she only thought it shameful because she was a coward who knew that Arya could destroy her and any others who crossed her path if she so wished. Of course, he did not defend her for any selfless reason of course, he simply thought that she would be a fun toy to play with for the foreseeable future. They could spar and hunt together. Joff might even take her as his mistress when he became King. Yes. A marriage to Arya Stark would be much more entertaining than to his ugly, cowardly cry-baby of a cousin. Joff dreaded to think of how his children with her would be. In all likelihood she’d bear him delicate does and stags which were like his Uncle Renly. Any babe he had with Arya on the other hand. They’d be vicious, ruthless predators, but cunning as well. Not simple brutes. 

Joffrey continued making his way down to his secret practice room, beginning to hum a tune he didn’t know the words to. He was meeting Arya there for a sparring match. The room was odd. There was a blocked-up entrance on the other side of it, he’d debated taking the rocks out of it once before changing his mind once he’d realised that on random occasions, he’d hear voices coming from the other side. The voices were the odd part of the room. While usually they were normal human ones, almost recognisable, on occasion they sounded like something more. Joffrey couldn’t describe them. But it wasn’t so disturbing that he’d leave his practice room behind. Knowing himself as he did, Joffrey figured that he was simply going more insane.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dany was almost concerned how easy it had been to convince the ENTIRETY of her brother’s court as well as Viserys himself that her sweet little Rhaella was instead Aegon. Of course, it had been less than a moon since her daughter turned son’s birth so there was still plenty of time for Dany’s treachery to be discovered. Really, the most shocking part of the lack of discovery was the fact that even after the hours Dany that had spent after childbirth unconscious and unable to stop any attempts of anyone willing to pick up her babe, still her daughter remained publicly known as her son. Though she would admit that it was only due to the White Dragon curling around her babe that Rhaella hadn’t been discovered. Dany’s experience with childbirth was certainly more eventful than most. Not only had she given birth to a Princess, but also brought two little dragons, wyrms, into the world. While the rebirth of the dragons, of both species, was certainly the most notable thing that had occurred that day for the world. For Dany herself, the most evident result of that day was the silence of Daenerys. Ever since the moment she had awoken from her sleep following childbirth, her other self had been silent, almost completely gone. Dany could still feel her somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, but she way small and impotent.

Of course, Daenerys’s disappearance from what was formerly their mind had made the past couple of weeks even for terrifying than they would have been with her. Daenerys had always been the better of them at understanding the politics of their make shift court after all. Dany was much more prone to rebellion and ordering people around. Speaking to the ladies who had been sent to her and Viserys’ court-in-exile in Pentos by their families, located across the free cities of Essos, following the birth of Rhaella and the two wyrms had been exceptionally difficult. Dany was a dragon; she didn’t need to listen to the silly words of women. All the bitches (and that’s what they were) wanted to talk was beauty (particularly her own), the darlingness of her babe, and how pleased she must be to give her Kingly husband both a son and dragons. As if her dragons were Viserys’. The black dragon had, not by any will of her own, been called Viserion by her brother. Privately, Dany called him Rhaegon after their brother Rhaegar. Evidently, when he was deemed old enough Viserys intended to ride her Rhaegon. Dany knew without a doubt that if her brother-husband made any attempt to do that he would not live to see the light of day. The White Dragon remained unnamed at least. It was obvious to all that the White Dragon was intended for Rhaella-Aegon, thus Viserys insisted that his heir be the one to name it.

Even as she thought these very thoughts the White Dragon lay curled about her babe who lay fast asleep in her (his?) cot. Dany truly did consider herself lucky. Her babe was safe and with a dragon at their side would hopefully remain so for as long as they lived. And she had Rhaegon, the little wyrm lay curled up in her lap now, purring as she stroked him. It was at times like these that she felt truly at peace. As if nothing could possibly go wrong. Though rationally she knew that Viserys could make his way through that door at any moment and have his way with her. Or that an assassin sent by the usurper would kill her and her babes.

What Dany did not expect was the very thing that followed.

For at that moment the Magister burst through the door and announced to her.

He announced to her that Viserys had been killed in a sparring accident with another fire bender hailing form the oh so distant land of Yi-Ti. Though Dany strongly doubted this, remembering the conversation that she overheard many moons ago.

That her ‘Son’ was now King.

That he, as her ‘son’s’ loyal servant would be perfectly willing to take it upon himself to act as regent for King Aegon until he came of age.

Mayhap it was an incorrect decision that she made following this.

But Dany could not very well allow her son to be a puppet of this foreign Magister. A Magister who would likely kill her Rhaella if she ever was known for who she truly was. Or if she ever placed a foot out of line as King.

So, Dany made her decision to become her ‘son’s’ regent know.

For the foreseeable future Dany would remain Queen.

Only this time, with her brother-husband dead, she would hold the power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I know. Not that often updated.  
Anyway. Wish everyone a late Happy New Year and good returns.  
As always, comments and kudos are appreciated.


	24. Varys' Plans

Varys had been serving the people of Westeros for such a long time now that he could barely remember a time when he didn’t. And of course, the vast majority of those memories were bad. His childhood in Essos ranked incredibly high on his list of worst life experiences. When he had come to Westeros, to work as a spymaster for Aerys II he had quickly noticed the mad king’s failing sanity and the obsession that lay within his son Crown Prince Rhaegar. Westeros had been so much better than Essos and Varys couldn’t let that change. So, he and Illyrio had began their plans, to force either a coup by a massive union of Lords, seeing their King so paranoid and psychotic or an invasion to place Illyrio’s young Blackfyre Wife on the throne, as soon as she had a son that is.

Rhaegar would have made a fine King, though his obsession with prophecies had been worrying, he was intelligent, charming and powerful. When he had ran away with the Stark girl Varys saw all of his plans falling apart. Until years later Varys had been convinced that all of his children had been killed, as well as Aerys’. While then Varys would have turned to his back up plan (it had been Illyrio’s preferred one) and sit the Blackfyre’s on the Iron Throne. The last Blackfyre Princess had died in 282, birthing a sickly boy who had died less that 4 years later. Illyrio still didn’t know that fact though. Varys patted himself on the back for being able to pass of Rhaegar’s last remaining bastard son as Illyrio’s little Blackfyre boy.

While Varys had given Robert Baratheon a trial period it had become quickly evident that the man was no fit King. At that point Varys hadn’t known of the bastard boy and Illyrio’s son had been the only viable successor, outside of Viserys Targaryen who even as a young boy had been quite obviously mad. So, Varys had decided that ‘Young Griff’ would marry the Princess Daenerys when they came of a decent age and that a rebellion would be mounted when they were adults with at least one heir with him claiming to be the spirited away Prince Aegon Targaryen. Those plans hadn’t changed with the death of the Blackfyre boy. The bastard thankfully had the Valyrian looks so he could be passed off as Aegon easily enough.

No, what had changed things had been the birth of Princess Myrcella in 290. When ‘Young Griff 2.0’ had been eight. With her snow-white hair and violet eyes the Princess Mrycella’s Targaryen heritage was obvious. It had been many, many levels of confusing for Varys. After all, he had known for years now of the Queen’s affair with her brother. Adding to that, even if Robert Baratheon actually had a legitimate child, why was she the only one of all his children to have the Targaryen looks? Varys had pondered over it for a while before realising that the reasons behind the young Princess’ looks didn’t matter. She was a Targaryen in all but name and if her brother (later brothers) were outed for their bastardy then Varys was looking at a future Queen. One who, through marriage to ‘Young Griff 2.0’ could bring a peaceful resolution to the chaos which still enveloped the Seven Kingdoms.

Of course, marrying Princess Myrcella Baratheon and Rhaegar’s Bastard would have been too good of a solution wouldn’t it. Only having to figure out what to do with 4 ‘Targaryens’ would have been much too simple. Varys was thrown for yet another loop when Ser Jaime fucking ‘Lannister’ used a flaming sword. Of course, he gave the excuse that ‘the magic of the Targaryen’s had kept some of their flames in the blade’….as if that were true. Robert had believed it of course; the man was never very smart. But Varys knew in that moment that the Golden Lannister Twins weren’t as Lannister as Lord Tywin liked to make them out to be. Suddenly the increasing madness of the Crown Prince and of his mother made a lot more sense. As well as Princess Mrycella’s looks. Sitting as the Queen Consort was Aerys’ own daughter. The irony. So, while Cersei and Joffrey would certainly have to go, what with the side of the coin they seemed to have fallen on. Varys now had 3 extra SANE illegitimate Targaryens to deal with. Honestly, 5/8 wasn’t a bad ratio. Unfortunately, Varys had then been incredibly torn as to which direction he should take. ‘Young Griff’ had then been 17 and about ready to be married to Daenerys. Well, they’d been preparing for that before Viserys the Mad had taken her as his bride on much shorter notice than they had been prepared for. ‘Young Griff’ needed that marriage if he was going to make a claim for the throne, his bastardy was so evident. The inexperience of the boy certainly didn’t help. While he might have been intelligent, he was not made to rule, that was evident. And besides, the boy was weak. His flames while stronger than Viserys’ were absolutely nothing on the flames of Daenerys when she lost control over them and he had absolutely no precision. Not like Aery’s bastard Ser Jaime. That man had ended up being more skilled at swordsmanship than even Rhaegar. His interest in it made much more sense considering his Targaryen heritage.

Honestly with the completely submissive Daenerys and he mad brother Viserys now out of the question along with the weakness of ‘Young Griff 2.0’ Varys had been strongly leaning towards trying to convince Ser Jaime to take the throne. The man had commanded for a while after he killed Aerys if Varys recalled correctly. He would make a decent King if one disregarded his patricide.

But then those plans had fallen through after they left Winterfell. The man was married to a Tyrell girl yes. Which would assure their support, but he was also following the Stark Bastard around like either a puppy or a guard dog depending on who came across them. Often, they were with the Princess Myrcella and the Prince Tommen, as well as the Stark sisters. Varys had been irritated to no end. Who would respect a man who seemed to guard a bastard like a King after all? Varys remembered how he had frozen at that thought. Why did the Honourable Ned Stark have a bastard? It was incredibly out of character for the most honourable Lord in Westeros. The bastard had been presented to court as a babe. When Ned Stark had returned from Dorne with his sisters remains. Ned Stark went to Dorne for the first time in his life without a babe and came back with one. As well as his sister’s bones. A sister who had been taken over 9 moons prior by Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. His first thought on the realisation had been ‘fucking hell’. Suddenly the confusion got even greater. Varys had then had to add a second child of Rhaegar Targaryen to his list of possible Kings.

Of course, then around 7 moons later he had had to remove all but one of his 9 possible claimants. Why? Because Daenerys fucking Targaryen had hatched two fucking Dragons as she gave birth to a MALE heir. Viserys had of course been quickly… taken care of. He was much too mad to be let around such precious cargo. In a complete twist instead of giving in to Illyrio’s request to be made regent for the young King Queen Daenerys had stood up for herself, and was now the Queen Regent for her son.

Now Varys was on the verge of panicking. Illyrio was trying to arrange a marriage between Queen Daenerys and ‘Young Griff 2.0’ which wasn’t in and of itself the most worrying part. No, that part was the fact that he had somehow managed to lose track of Rhaegar’s son with Lyanna as well as Ser Jaime and Princess Myrcella. They were all fucking missing and if Varys had any hair, he’d be tearing it out night now.

Yes, Varys’ plans had changed a lot over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, did ya miss me?  
I've been pretty busy lately with uni and this new Harry Potter story.   
Soz. Yeah I know it's pretty short.  
So... hope you enjoy Varys' mental breakdowns?  
Comments and Kudos are appreciated as always


	25. Fire VIII-Pentos

When Jaime finally laid his eyes on the giant sandstone walls of Pentos what they had just done finally hit him. Jaime had successfully smuggled one recognised Princess and one unrecognised King out of the Capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Alongside their two dragons (one of which was larger than a hound at this point) and an egg of his own. Jaime still felt guilty about that. Not about taking the golden egg, that felt right, but about not telling his daughter or King. Jaime ran a hand through his now black hair, he dyed his hair once they left the not-so-watchful eyes of the guards so as to be less noticeable among the masses. Myrcella was their key to Illyrio’ s manse and thus only veiled her hair in cloth, Jaime knew that Illyrio was hosting his half-brother and sister due to the many meetings he had overheard during his tenure in the Baratheon King’s Guard. For his part the King had cut off his long locks, leaving average length hair behind. They were masquerading as a family of livestock traders, him Jaime, the father and Myrcella and the King as his children. That was a bit odd for even Jaime.

They said that their livestock were large hounds destined for a Master’s manse in Pentos. Nobody had dared check to see whether they were being truthful. Whether that was due to fear of the Masters or more likely, the fear of the blade that either he or the King was always sharpening by the crates. One thing was for certain, the still growing dragons, Lyrax and Ruaragon, would be extremely glad to be out of their cages when they finally met with the so-called Queen Daenerys. Jaime wasn’t sure how wise it was to go straight to his half-sister. They had no idea of her character; she was little mentioned in the briefings he had overheard. Other than her marriage to Viserys and pregnancy that was. To expect a Queen to simply accept that the King was the true King, not her or her child. It was going to be difficult. The King said that their dragons would convince her. For once he was completely single-minded in his plan. It was worrying. Jaime dreaded what the Queen’s reaction to them would be. He prayed that she was her Mother’s daughter, not their Father’s. Like Viserys was said to be. It was why they would attempt to see Daenerys instead, she was a much safer option than Viserys.

Jaime was drawn out of his thoughts by their arrival in Pentos. They docked to be faced with a city full of hustle and bustle. Like King’s Landing, Pentos was crowded and loud, though notably less odorous. The men there wore long robes ranging in colour from yellow to red, a number of their beards were dyed and forked eccentrically. The women’s dresses were the same colours as well as their headdresses, protecting both their modesty and their heads from the extreme heat. Luckily, the three of them barely noticed due to their heritage.

As Jaime offloaded his precious cargo, dragons of both kinds, he felt his nerves grow. They had to get through the inspectors. Then they needed to find their way to Illyrio’s manse and pray that Queen Daenerys would receive them. As Jaime stepped in front of the King and Princess to announce ‘her’ wishes and protect them if necessary, he steeled himself. The control officer looked up with a face that oozed apathy and asked in heavily accented Westerosi,

“Goods?”

Jaime rose himself to his fullest height and said with the most power he could summon, recalling his Valyrian

“Her Royal Highness The Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms is here to seek an audience with the so-called Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen.”

As Mercy lowered her headdress to reveal her tiara laden hair the control officer jumped to his feet and offered a bow, his eyes widening.

“Your Royal Highness. It is an honour for this most humble man to make your acquaintance.” He bowed lower, no doubt looking for favour. Waving a hand and shouting in bastard Valyrian at an older boy a few steps away the control officer turned back to them.

“If it should please her Royal Highness mine own son shall show her to the Manse of Magister Illyrio whom is hosting the remainder of House Targaryen. If Her Royal Highness requires anything else?”

Myrcella spoke like a true Princess as she answered

“I thank you sir. If it would not be too much trouble, I should like the assistance of some men in carrying my luggage to the manse.”

The man told his son to fetch his friends in fast paced bastard Valyrian before turning back to them.

“It shall be done Princess.”

It was sooner rather than later that they found their selves following a stranger up to another stranger’s house to meet with an estranged relative. Jaime was almost ready to tear his hair out he was so stressed. His attention was constantly torn between all 5 of the Dragons under his watch.

Jaime was slightly relieved when they found their selves staring at the 12-foot walls of Illyrio’ s Manse, even with the iron spikes that stood atop of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Daenerys Targaryen had been doing disconcertingly good over the past week, her first as Queen Regent. It was almost concerning how quickly she took to planning. Dany doubted that she would ever be able to bring herself to reconquer Westeros in a number of years when her Rhaegon was fully grown as the magister appeared to be planning. Dany detested the way that the man spoke to her. Like she was a silly little girl and not The Queen, not a dragon. They had received a great number of dignitaries arriving to offer their condolences on the death of her brother-husband. Dany was not fooled though; the mummers had not been interested in them for years. No, what they were interested in were House Targaryen’s reborn dragons.

The mourning gifts were all littered with gold and dragons as some of them even outwardly declared their support of her claim to the distant Iron Thone. She had received dignitaries ranging from all across Essos, not so far as Yi-Ti though. Honestly, she could not say how thankful she was that tomorrow her husband would be burned and she would finally be able to find peace. Well as much peace as was possible being surrounded by inane women. Gods above Dany wished she could get rid of her entourage. When her Rhaegon was a grown dragon she would do so immediately. For the time being though, Dany needed to fall into her mother persona as much as possible, appealing to those men around her. Her place was insecure enough as it was, with a young manipulable heir. She would like as not be safe for the next few years, until they were sure that her babe would not pass from this world.

Dany smelt and heard the magister before she saw him, such was his perfumed odour and heavy breaths. As Magister Illyrio made his way over to her side she raised her head from the fist she had been resting it on and moved a hand over to her other side where the cradle containing her babe was located. Dany had already decided that her babe would never be let out of her sight. It was too dangerous for them. Looking the Magister over Dany noted something interesting, something that made her flames curl about her. The Magister looked nervous. Very nervous. Mayhap this wasn’t the announcement of yet another dignitary then.

“Your Grace.” He bowed very deeply.

“Magister?”

“There is someone at the gates wishing to meet with you.”

“Another dignitary I assume? Simply send them in. They shall be treated no differently from the rest.”

He pulled at his collar and fiddled with his beard. Dany’s eyes narrowed.

“Well you see. My Queen. We are not entirely sure why this person is here. It may be dangerous for Your Grace.” His eyes drifted to the side.

“Which person is here to see me magister?” she growled

The Magister’s eyes fell to the ground once more as he nigh whispered.

“The Usurper’s daughter, my Queen. Myrcella Baratheon. With her she brings what appears to be, judging from his two swords, the Kingslayer. As well as a Stark.”

Dany was struck into silence. Well then. This was an interesting way to end the week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyo. They're finally meeting guys. Fun.   
Poor Jaime. Much stress.  
Also because I just found out about it and need to tell everyone. Guess who got a high 2: 1 in their assignment. Moi! Yay.
> 
> Comments and Kudos are appreciated.  
Have a good one guys!


	26. Fire IX-Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we start I want to remind everyone to take Coronavirus seriously, particularly everyone in Europe and America . It might not be you, but it WILL be someone. If you're in a lockdown country remember not to panic buy, there's still food! Please stay inside otherwise.
> 
> Go to the WHO for your information as well as other relevant medical authorities such as the NHS in the UK and CDC in America.
> 
> https://www.who.int/emergencies/diseases/novel-coronavirus-2019/advice-for-public
> 
> Try to keep up to date with your governments responses to the outbreak and even when you’re not asked to, wash your hands and don’t cough on people.
> 
> Stay home and stay safe to everyone in areas with outbreaks and my prayers to those afflicted, their families and people who’s jobs are/might be affected.
> 
> Thanks to all the doctors and nurses fighting this disease right now.

To say that Dany was surprised to see the sole legitimate daughter of the Usurper would be an understatement. Dany had never in her wildest dreams expected to come face to face with the girl, not even when the plans to reconquer Westeros came to fruition in over a decade’s time. By that point the Baratheon girl would likely be married with children of her own, Dany had had no intentions to punish her. The Kingslayer on the other hand, the man who had ruthlessly murdered her father King Aerys. Dany had always known that she might meet him one day, might meet either his blade or his rock that is. Being face to face with the man after a lifetime of being told what he had done to her father, to her family, it was surreal.

The man didn’t look particularly evil. His black hair (which was obviously dyed) contrasted greatly with vibrant green eyes which seemed to draw her in. The twin swords he was known for rested on either side of his hips and his eyes kept glanced about, particularly at the Baratheon girl’s luggage in the crates behind him. Of the three he was the readiest for a battle. While his posture appeared relaxed, Dany could see the readiness in his stance and the placement of his hands. The other two were different. The Usurper’s daughter remained at the head of the threesome, seemingly relaxed from what Dany could tell, while the other one, the one whom looked like a Stark held himself tall and proud, meeting her eyes readily. He was stubborn and overconfident, Dany could tell. After assessing the three Dany turned her eyes to the crates, while the three claimed them to be luggage Dany was dubious. After all, what luggage requires air holes? When the girl began to move her feet around Dany knew that she had kept them waiting for a sufficient time and turned her eyes back to the girl in the centre.

“Lady Baratheon. We hadn’t expected to see you here. Is the Usurper intending to express his sorrow upon my late husband, the true and rightful King’s death?”

The oddly Valyrian looking Baratheon girl curtsied slightly as she answered Dany’s inquiry.

“You Royal Highness. I am here to seek asylum for myself, my Uncle Ser Jaime and my cousin.” Said the so-called Princess.

“Cousin? I hadn’t realised that House Baratheon was related to House Stark.”

“Aye. House Stark is yet to marry into the so-called royal family” The Stark boy said

“And yet she calls you cousin.”

“Indeed.” The Stark boy stopped talking at that, appearing to size her up.

A chirp came from Dany’s side, looking over she saw The White Dragon looking over at their visitors with interest. What followed was shocking, for the first time since the little one had hatched it left the side of Dany’s babe. Dany schooled her expression as the little wyrm glided over to her three...visitors, none of whom appeared to be at all nervous at the wyrms approach. It was even harder to hide her surprise as the Stark boy knelt down and offered the dragon his hand, the Kingslayer looking on in evident concern.

“It likes you.”

“Aye.”

“Now why is that boy?”

“I’m older than you Princess.”

“I am The Queen. The Mother of Dragons. You shall now address me so.”

“With all due respect Princess, you are not a Queen. But you could be.” Stark said lifting his eyes from the white dragon to meet her own. The Kingslayer stiffened even further at that.

“You are certainly not the sort of person whom I expected to offer me aide in reconquering my Kingdom.”

“You misunderstand me Princess. I mean to make you my Queen as we reconquer my own Kingdom, in fire and blood.” Dany felt her flames growing in anger at the Stark boy’s insolence.

“Your Grace.” The Kingslayer hissed, seemingly at the Stark boy.

“Who are you, boy, to speak to me in such a manner.”

The Stark boy stood and walked confidently in front of the Kingslayer and so-called Princess. Even before he spoke, Dany saw it. Saw the overconfidence, arrogance, rage.

“I am Jaeharys Targaryen, Third of my Name, son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and his second wife Princess Lyanna Stark. I am the Father of a Dragon and the commander of the loyalties of the greatest warrior, save for myself, across Westeros, Ser Jaime Blackfyre. Simply put, I am the rightful King of Westeros. Princess. And you will be helping me to gain my crown.”

Though he claimed to be Rhaegar’s son and The White Dragon’s friendliness toward him seemed to confirm it Dany could not see any of the characteristics that she had heard of her eldest brother having in the boy. No, instead Dany saw Viserys. Viserys at his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yup. Seems that power is changing Jon. This chapter was v short because next is gonna be a biggun. I dunno how big yet, but let's just say it's a 3 POV chapter.
> 
> How's everyone doing? I'm in quarantine now. Hopefully everyone else from the UK is doing the same if they're able. If anyone needs a chat I'm here.  
Keep cheerful and safe everyone. Heck you might even get some more frequent updates XD.


	27. Ice XIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mothersborn refers to children who inherit their mother's powers only

Domeric Bolton was hunting. For the seven hundredth time it seemed. Since they arrived in King’s Landing the King had been hunting at least twice a week and at this point it was truly beginning to drive everyone, even Domeric, to the brink of insanity. Today they had caught sight of a boar. The creature was massive. It was one of the largest boars that Domeric had ever seen, of course that meant that the King wished to take down the beast by himself. Though Domeric did not know whether that idea might have been more to do with the fact that the King was incredibly drunk. Some of their other hunting companions appeared mildly concerned. But looking around Domeric could tell. Some were not concerned for the King. But due to something. If Dom was not so incredibly tired of all these hunts then he might have made more of an effort to investigate. But Dom had no particular vested interest in the current King’s continued longevity. So, he turned a blind eye.

Domeric continued doing what he had been for the past few hours, playing with his ice and seeing how far he could send it from his body. Domeric was no Stark after all. He could only freeze things he was touching. To be able to summon ice or snow away from one’s own body and control it was the domain and right of House Stark alone. Well. And its cadet branches to a lesser extent. Domeric stared at his hand, which had an icy sheen to it. Gods he was bored.

If he was any more bored, he might even start to think about his new wife. And her son. She claimed it was his. It was most certainly not. Soon after the babe’s birth a moon prior Domeric had placed a frozen hand on the babe, as was customary of House Bolton. To ensure no bastards or Mothersborn were brought into their House. Like a true Bolton the babe had not frozen solid. Unlike any other babe that Domeric had ever come across however, in reaction to his hand the babe had somehow managed to burn him. As it had stared up at Domeric, who had held his injured hand close to his chest, with its brilliant amethyst eyes and curly brown hair Domeric had decided that he would not see the babe dead. As he very well should have. After doing some research Domeric found no trace of curled locks in his Southron wife’s family tree, and Domeric knew that there was none in his own. Lord Stark’s bastard on the other hand…Domeric recalled his long curls. Domeric also recalled how the Kingslayer had stuck to the boy like glue, how they, alongside the Princess, had vanished so many weeks ago. If Domeric’ s suspicions were correct, then his ‘son’ Arthor could become very useful.

A ginormous clap of thunder distracted Domeric from his thoughts. He looked over to the direction and waited for the King to return with his kill, his blasé expression remaining on his face. Surprisingly enough, though mayhap not unwelcomely, a Lannister boy came running out, wailing for help. That the king was dead. The Baratheon lordly contingent hurried after the squire, while the Westerlands Lords lagged behind them. Domeric spurred his horse forward. Well. At least he wouldn’t have to go on any more hunts any time soon.

The King lay mauled by the boar on the ground. Heavily injured but still breathing. It appeared that the Lannister squire was, unsurprisingly, a fool.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As Sansa sat in a sewing circle with Queen Cersei and her Ladies, as well as the Lady Lannister who should have been her good sister, she attempted to distract herself from the thoughts and worries which had plagued her for weeks now. Jon had vanished alongside the Princess Myrcella and Ser Jaime. Even Varys could find neither head nor tail of them across Westeros and Essos. It seemed as if they had simply dropped off of the face of the Planetos. She had taken to praying alongside Lady Lannister each day for Jon’s safety and to help him find his way home as Lady Lannister, or Margaery as she insisted that Sansa call her, did the same for her husband.

Margaery was pleasant company most of the time. Though Sansa oftentimes had her doubts about either or not she was showing her true character. Since Ser Jaime had vanished Margaery had worn clothes which expressly showed her bump. In the absence of her husband it made sense that Margaery wished to display the most obvious tie that she had to House Lannister. Over the past few days Margaery’s pregnancy appeared to be affecting her more and more. Resulting in her retiring to her chambers much earlier than all of the other ladies.

The Queen Mother did much the same as Margaery, though for much different reasons. The disappearance of her daughter and twin appeared to have taken its toll on the Queen Mother as well. Sansa could not imagine that the recent death of King Robert two days ago helped at all. Of course, Queen Cersei was still radiant and prideful as ever but the anger and fear in her eyes could not be hidden by even the most expensive of make-up. Sansa used to enjoy these sewing circles, but now, though she still enjoyed sewing, the conversation had all but dried up. The sole entertainment that Sansa found in the circle, other than her own stitches, was the family politics that Queen Cersei and Margaery played. It was both entertaining and educational to watch the interactions between the two women. It also acted as a distraction for Sansa.

The ladies were drawn from their sewing circle by the arrival of the Maester who immediately bowed to Queen Cersei and went to whisper something in her ear. The Queen Mother smirked and glanced over at Sansa. A chill ran down Sansa’s spine. Whatever had happened must have had something to do with House Stark.

“Little Bird. It appears that your Father… he has betrayed our dear King Joffrey. Claiming that his right to the throne is not true. He has unfortunately had to be sent to the cells. I am sure that you knew nothing of this horrible thing did you my sweet?”

Sansa ground to a halt. Her Father. Father was in the black cells. Oh, gods above. She had been quiet for too long. She had to answer the question.

“Of course, I do not your grace. I am sure that my Lord Father has simply been mistaken. Mayhap some courtier gave him false information. My Lord Father has the tendency to believe all that others say now and again.” Sansa’s heart began to beat faster and she saw her drink begin to wobble in its cup. Sansa tried to calm herself. It was a mistake. Father would be fine. They would question him in a manner befitting a Lord. He would be exonerated. At worst they might become hostages here. The King wouldn’t execute a Great Lord, would he? His Warden of the North? No. Surely not.

Less than a week later Ser Ilyn Payne drove a pillar of stone through her Father’s head as she and Arya looked on in horror.

Sansa screamed in horror and internal agony.

As she screamed her heart turned cold and all of Blackwater Bay froze over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo. What do we think?  
And yeah. Sansa and Jae have more in common than they thought.   
Arthor is being a cute lil' bastard. Burning Domeric XD  
Comments and Kudos guys


	28. Fire X

They had been in Pentos for nearly a week now. Jaime was sure that news of their arrival would soon find its way back to Westeros. It had not taken long for the Targaryen Princess to agree to a betrothal to the King. Particularly after her dragons had been introduced to the King’s own Lyrax, who towered over the little things. Less than a day after the announcement of their engagement a boy claiming to be the lost Prince Aegon, the King’s elder brother, arrived. While the boy had certainly looked like a Targaryen and did resemble Rhaegar slightly, it was unfortunate for him that unlike anyone else in the room Jaime knew for a fact that Rhaegar’s eldest legitimate son had been born with a mark on the bottom of his foot. He was slightly surprised that the Griffin Kingsguard who travelled with the boy had no knowledge of the mark, but then again so few had. It was an imperfection, and Targaryen’s were not known for the fondness of physical imperfections. The so-called lost Prince had no such mark and was promptly sent away by Queen Daenerys. Worryingly for Jaime, the King had wanted to burn the boy. The boy who had obviously been raised to believe that he was the lost prince. That the throne of Westeros was his birth right. Jaime almost felt sorry for the boy. He certainly felt worried for his King. If King Jaehaerys continued on the path that he appeared to be going down then Jaime was terrified that Rhaegar’s son might end up like his grandfather Aerys. It had happened slowly, and he appeared no to have completely fallen into a pit of madness yet. But the potential was there that he could. And Jaime did not know how to stop it from happening. Perhaps his daughter and sister could help the King. Both Daenerys and Myrcella appeared to have fallen on the right side of the coin. Perhaps they could steady him, as Rhaella had Aerys during the early years of his descent to madness.

Somehow, they had managed to keep Mercy’s identity secret from the Dragon Queen, convincing her that Ruaragon was the King’s second dragon, not Mercy’s. Jaime still wasn’t sure how it worked. It seemed obvious to anyone with eyes that Mercy was a Targaryen. But perhaps the Queen just did not want to see that fact. After all, for most people it is incredibly hard to see past what they wish to see. Jaime had been spending a lot of time with his daughter over the course of the past week, what with the King and his future Queen being preoccupied with the preparations for their wedding. She seemed happier here. Where she was free to spend time doing whatever she wished, not tied down by anything. Of course, she, like Jaime himself, missed Tommen desperately. Thinking of him all alone in King’s Landing broke Jaime’s heart. He could only pray that the boy found some solace in the Stark sisters. Jae missed his cousins as well, no matter how much the Dragon King tried to deny it. Sometimes, late at night, Jaime would find Jae staring at his smart clothes, embroidered with wolves and the handkerchief that Lady Sansa had made for him many weeks ago.

It would be some time before he would be able to set foot on Westeros again. Their dragons needed time to grow. Time that no one knew whether or not they had. Confirmation of dragons would surely send a multitude of assassins after them, especially once King Robert learnt of the claim that the King was laying on Westeros. Jaime had no doubt that Robert’s wrath would be terrifying when faced with the information that there was a Targaryen claimant to the throne naming himself as the legitimate son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. They were not safe here. But there was no where near Westeros that they would be.

At least here, in Pentos, they could almost all be together. Still continuously looking over their shoulders yes, but together nonetheless. As it would come to pass, the same could not be said for the King’s mother’s family. They learnt later that day that Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North had been executed by the now-King Joffrey on the charge of treason. Lord Stark had tried to call out the incestuous product of his and Cersei’s affair. To claim that Joffrey had gotten rid of the only legitimate child of Robert Baratheon deliberately. Robert Baratheon who was now dead by way of a boar’s tusk. That was not the most shocking of revelations however. Jaime had long expected that Robert would be dead before Joffrey reached adulthood. And Ned Stark doing something so idiotic as to accuse Cersei (truthfully yes) of adultery. Well that was very in character for the man.

No, the most shocking revelation to reach their ears that night was the news of Sansa Stark. It turned out that she was obscenely powerful. If the news was to be believed then at the moment that her Lord father’s head had fallen to the ground, the very southron-esque Lady Sansa Stark had frozen over all of blackwater bay in her grief. That snow had fallen on King’s Landing as it did in the North. That the King Joffrey Baratheon had had the girl swiftly imprisoned in the Black Dungeons on war crimes. It was a good thing that there was no one in Westeros to lead a rebellion at that moment. Unless the comatose Brandon Stark decided to wake up and have his men carry out his vengeance. If they were subject to the crow Stark then Jaime had no doubt that a war would rage. As it was. There were two young Stark boys, unlikely to be able to rally an army. Alongside the Baratheon brothers. One of whom was incredibly unlikely to ever produce an heir, the other whose heir was already betrothed to Joffrey.

Though it seemed that the King was inclined to raising Westeros to the ground to avenge his Uncle and free his cousins. He was still sensible enough to know that such a feat was currently completely impossible. That they would need a vast number of allies if they wanted to pull it off. Allies that they did not currently have.

Jaime rested his head in his hands and stared at the golden egg which lay in the flames of his hearth. He wondered if he had made the correct choice in coming to Pentos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii...  
Yeah not dead. Haven't got it. I'm fine.  
I just kind of lost interest in this story.  
Don't worry! I'm not gonna abandon it!   
Just don't expect frequent updates.  
Anyway, I hope you are all staying safe.   
Much Love xxx


	29. Varys II

Varys was exhausted. He had just come out of another council meeting. Joffrey Waters was mad yes. But he was also much more fiscally responsible than Robert, not that that was too hard of a bar to reach. When he had found out about the state of the Crown’s finances the boy had screamed about how come no one had fixed them. They were having regular meeting to attempt to rectify the situation now. And much to Varys’ glee the Master of Coin, Littlefinger himself, had been promptly fired. Last Varys had heard of him the man had set his sights on the Vale and its Lady. Varys wondered what the meddlesome man was planning to do. It was an unhappy coincidence that the Vale was one of the hardest of the Seven Kingdoms to access, as well as to spy on.

But the financial situation of the Crown had not been the centre of discussion today. No today had been full of dragons. Varys had located the Princess, Prince and Ser Jaime. No. They had revealed themselves. With an announcement. King Jaehaerys Targaryen, Third of his name, was to marry Princess Daenerys Targaryen. Varys could only assume that Lady Myrcella and Ser Jaime were safely with them as well. Varys’ newest King evidently did not think the same. Joffrey Waters had gone seemingly mad with grief after his sister’s disappearance and this announcement had only assured that his madness continued to deepen. Varys had not thought the boy capable of such blatant devotion and grief. Even more surprising the boy’s devotion seemed to have now somewhat extended to his long-hated younger brother Tommen. Varys honestly hadn’t expected much from Joffrey when he came to the throne. Those expectations had been further lessened when Joffrey had executed Ned Stark. Though the man did not have a son old enough to lead any rebellions he was an incredibly valuable hostage. At least he had not executed the Stark daughters. King Joffrey appeared to have inherited his legal father’s obsession with Stark women.

He sparred with Arya Stark every day and kept her at his side throughout most of the day, even seating her at the high table in the seat reserved for the Queen Mother, much to Cersei’s disdain. She hated the girl so fiercely that Varys was utterly shocked Arya Stark was not dead yet. Varys was certain that it had been the girl’s influence over the King that had seen Sansa Stark pardoned and kept under lock and key, as well as heavy guarding, in the Maidenvault, a building which seemed able to withstand all and any attempts to escape it. Varys believed that it would take less than a moon for Joffrey to break his engagement with Lady Shireen and take the younger Stark girl as his betrothed instead.

Arya Stark scared Varys much more than Joffrey. Joffrey was mad. That was without question. But he was the sort of mad one could control. Arya Stark on the other hand. Varys couldn’t quite figure out what to make of the girl. He could not tell what her intentions were. No matter how hard he tried. What he did know was that the girl’s eyes were colder than ice and her skill in bending, which Joffrey had been encouraging her to practice, as well as with a sword was phenomenal. Yes, Arya Stark was a confusing variable. Her sister Sansa on the other hand…Sansa Stark had not spoken a single word after the scream she had let out when Lord Stark died. Had not bended since freezing Blackwater Bay and summoning a snowstorm above King’s Landing which evidently had stretched across the Crownlands. Varys supposed they were lucky that the girl had quickly rid them of it following the short spell of time she had spent in the Black Cells. Since then she’d been very quiet. Arya Stark never visited her, even though she had now been given permission to, and the poor young lady’s only companion was one Jeyne Poole, who had joined Lady Sansa in her gilded cage. Varys’ young birds working in the castle as maids told him that the two spent all of their time embroidering, no words leaving the red heads mouth as Jeyne sometimes attempted to make conversation. It was an incredibly sad thought. But there was little Varys could do for them. Not until the Targaryens made their move. And by that point it may be too late for the young ladies. It was certainly too late for Lady Margaery Lannister. The Rose of Highgarden was still up and about but Varys could see the sweat drenching her. Others simply attributed it to the hot weather. Varys knew better. The condition of Lady Lannister confirmed his suspicions of the parentage of Cersei and Jaime. Varys had almost dosed the girl with moon tea before stopping himself. After all, while many plants had died giving birth to dragons, black and red alike, some of those wyrms had survived their mother’s inevitable fate. As much as Varys regretted to admit it. The Rose of Highgarden was a price he was willing to pay for a Targaryen in the palm of his hand. Though he supposed Joffrey and Tommen would count for that, neither had either the looks nor the powers. This babe was obviously fiery.

Varys sighed as a small figure caught his attention from the corner of his eye. What could possibly be so important that one of his little birds felt the need to come and tell him in person outside of one of their meeting places.

He glanced around to ensure they were alone before turning to them quickly. “Hello there little one. What is the matter?” he said calmly.

The little bird looked around incredibly nervously before answering.

“It’s Lord Stark milord.”

“Brandon?”

“Yes milord.”

“What news?” In his mind Varys prayed that the crippled young lord had not been convinced by his mother to start a rebellion.

The urchin looked around uncertainly before leaning in to whisper his answer to Varys.

“Brandon Stark has vanished from Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I now have a plan. I know how this story will end. And how many chapters it will take.  
As I said last chapter I've all but lost interest in this story so the chapters will probably stick to ~1000 words and may be far between.  
But rest assured it will be wrapped up at some point in time.   
29 chapters down. 14 more and an epilogue to go.  
I do still enjoy comments and kudos though, please leave them~!


	30. Ice XIV

Sansa’s silence had held ever since her father’s death. Even after she had been released from the black cells, hair greasy and dirty, clothes worn after too much use and bruised all over from the stone floor, her silence had held. Her cage in the Maiden vault afforded her many more luxuries than when she had been down there. But she still could not forget the fact that she had been imprisoned by the so-called king who had murdered her father. That Arya had betrayed their family and turned into his best fucking friend and future mistress. That she would likely be stuck in this gilded cage for the rest of her life. That if her either of her baby brothers or her cousin-who-was-now-King came for her she would be dead before she could summon any ice or water to protect her. That Robb was completely helpless, stuck watching his family fall apart from afar. Sansa saw no reason to speak. Her only companions were Jeyne and her guards. Talking to any of them was pointless. No one could save her now. Arya may have influenced Joffrey to send Sansa to the maiden vault. But Sansa doubted she would be able to do much more even if she were willing to. No, Sansa was a prisoner in all but name. Her brothers much too young to be left on their own or to vouch for her. Sansa had no hope any more. Gone were the days where she dreamed of a good marriage. Now all Sansa could see was her father’s head rolling on the ground.

It was these thoughts that had her awake that night. The air was shockingly crisp for summer in King’s Landing. It reminded her of home. Sansa breathed in deeply. And out again. She missed Winterfell. They never should have left. Sansa’s eyes snapped open as she was drawn from her meditative state by the feeling of water nearby, not true water though, it was instead the blood flowing through someone’s veins that Sansa sensed.

“Hello?” Her silence was finally broken

“Lady Sansa.” Sansa recognised the voice. Her eyes hardened further.

“Lord Bolton.”

“So you speak then.”

Sansa turned to face the young Lord. His deathly pale almost white eyes met her own blue ones with ease. Sansa noted that his eyes were even colder than her own.

“What may I do for you Lord Bolton.”

“It is more a case of what I may do for you Lady Sansa.”

“Oh? And what may that be then.” Sansa’s heart beat faster in the vain hope that the least loyal of her father’s bannermen may have come to rescue her.

“News has come that Lord Stark has vanished. That the Lady Dowager is mad. I was simply planning to return to the North with my family and offer my aid to the young Lord Stark.”

He gave her a smile which gave the pretence of friendliness but Sansa could see the ambition and ruthlessness which lay beneath it. The young lord’s words then caught up to her. Bran had vanished. Mother was understandable mad with grief which would have left Rickon all alone. Gods above, her baby brother was only 4 years old. And he was tasked with the duty of Lord Stark. Mother apparently was not capable anymore. Lord Bolton was leaving to become Warden of the North. Sansa just knew it. Her lips tightened. How dare he come here. To boast at her. To make her suffer more. She would kill him. Slowly and painfully. Sansa’s thoughts were brought to a complete halt by Lord Bolton’s next words.

“I had assumed that your Ladyship may wish to accompany us.”

White noise sounded in her head as she processed the still smiling mans words. Freedom. A return to Winterfell. To be with her mother and one of her brother’s once more. Sansa’s mouth which had fallen open at Domeric Bolton’s words tightened once more as her eyes hardened. Domeric Bolton may have been better than his father and half-brother but he was still a Bolton. And it would be folly to trust him. But what choice did she have? She could either leave with him now or spend the rest of her foreseeable future in this gilded cage. He may be manipulating her she reasoned, but Sansa could play that game as well. She knew she could. Besides, she would rather die escaping than be a pretty little bird any longer. Her mind made up Sansa answered him.

“Of course. I assume we shall be leaving now?”

Sansa saw the way Domeric Bolton’s eyes sparkled and his mouth twitched in apparent victory. It made her sick. He bowed to her and offered his hand.

“Very well your Ladyship. I brought a cloak for you. I apologise if I am being too forward in asking this. But your ladyship would not mind having to borrow Lady Bolton’s clothing? I’m afraid we are on a rather tight schedule.”

“No matter. Let us be off now Lord Bolton.” Sansa swung the cloak atop her nightgown elegantly before lacing up her favoured walking shoes.

“Of course, my lady.”

Her dark cloak, void of embellishment covered up the detailed nightgown she wore and her easily identifiable red hair as they fled out of the room. Looking about Sansa could see all of her guards frozen in death. Undoubtably she would be blamed for this. Surprisingly Sansa found that she did not mind that fact. Neither of them said a word until they had finally exited the city gates with no one following or attacking them. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. It was not until much later in the morn that they finally united with the few remaining Northmen and women residing in king’s landing following Joffrey’s massacre of them.

As she looked about at the familiar faces Sansa noticed one face missing which hardened her heart.

Arya Stark had remained in the red keep. Almost certainly of her own volition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo. One chapter closer and Sansa is going home. Wonder what Dom is planning?


End file.
